beauty, nostalgia, poetry

Longing

Days before she died, 
Mom sat, legs over the side of her bed, 
gazing out the window onto the sunny street: 
"I wish it would snow once - just for me," she said.
I think that, too, sometimes.
There is a longing in this dry place:
when life is dry, empty.
I'd love to see the snow then,
flakes falling, silent, to the ground,
the heavens shaking their down pillows.
I'd like to be in that quiet place for a few moments,
surrender my busy mind to it,
welcome the holy silence, the emptiness -
                     all that space. 
          
Mary Elyn Bahlert, February 27, 2022




Full Moon – Moments Before Sunrise, 10:00 AM, Sunday, December 27, 2016
Unalaska, AK – photo taken by meb

 





 
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Acedia

Acedia:  spiritual or mental sloth; apathy

Monks in their cells in the Middle Ages
rose before dawn to pray.
Instead, they walked that narrow room,
     back and forth, back and forth, all day.
Some called this a sin,
     this rocking in their stiff chairs,
     the unwillingness to kneel, to pray.

The days of cloistering went on eternally, it seemed.

We've been sheltering for months,
the agitated monk inside us growing, growling,
longing to be free again.
Still he paces, frantic and passive.
Call it a sin.
Call it malaise, a fever.
Acedia has risen from the ashes
to mark this time.

Mary Elyn Bahlert
10/2020

Uncategorized

Holy Moment

IMG_1102

We sat, together on the edge of your single bed,  in that narrow room.

There, you would die, within the year.

I told you that your little brother was dead:  “Uncle Pete died.”

Your green eyes filled with tears – I had seldom seen you cry –

a small sob escaped.

You were remembering, I guess,

those complicated years of disenchantment, and love.

 

In a moment your face cleared –  you smiled,

and laughed.

Gone.

 

 

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Autumn, yellow

img_0905End of summer – now,
an early autumn.
Every morning, more yellow leaves
on the birch I watch to
mark the seasons.

Do you feel it, too? I ask, silent,
the silent branches.

With my senses I note passages:
another wrinkle,
calendar pages, turning quickly,
a certain fragrance – summer gone, fall here.

I watch the wind in your branches, longing:
Do you know it, too?

My companion:
together, we are moving quickly,
through time.

—meb 09/2016