Archive for love

The Flower Dies

Posted in Bird of Time with tags , , , , , on May 31, 2014 by bird of time

The flowers are pink, riotously shaded from almost white in the deep center where tall stamen burst out, to a slice of deep carmine at the tip. The flower is a circled row of aspen shaped petals. With them in the vase are white lillies scented with a bit of Heaven. They stand gloriously  eloquent for a week, then the white takes on a gray and the scent and petals fade.

The pinks ignore their jar-mates and keep their heads up for another few days, then one by one, like fall leaves, they litter the table.

I pick up one that is still soft and blushing, an icon for a short poem on life or love, perhaps life and love if you are very lucky. In that tiny petal the details of treasured moments are painted. Our world passes through a series of beautiful moments in time that will never stay, circling for a few days to form a perfect flower, then fall to be swept up. A metaphor for life.

Every day, time absorbs us, demands our attention. Like the old God,Cronos, it devours everything it creates. Yet, it creates.

In return for allowing him to love her,the Greek god, Apollo promised the Sibyl of Cumea anything she wished. She asked that Apollo love her for as many years as the number of the grains of sand she held. She forgot to ask for youth and as she aged, Apollo ceased to love her and forgot her. She faded away and only her voice remained. In my collection of poetry on Greek mythology, “The Gift of Lovely Song” she asks her fellow oracles, “Is the hour of love enough?”

In an old book, my grandmother had pressed a flower. I am a great-grandmother now and the flower has fallen apart but what piece of the world was in that flower? A kiss? Love itself? She married three times but loved only once. The flower was briefly held, or was it? Was this bit in the book, still that hour of love? I hope so.

He was my grandfather whom I never knew but am looking forward to seeing  what that icon held when I get to Heaven. At least, I hope to get to Heaven.

Perhaps it will depend upon whether or not, like Hansel and Gretals’ bread crumbs, I can leave a trail of flowers in this world.





Words Spell Where the Heart is

Posted in Bird of Time, Philosophy with tags , , , , , , on May 4, 2014 by bird of time

I haven’t posted in a long time. My overdrive ran out, I guess.

I didn’t run out of words, I ran out of heart.  All of this political dirt, all the  worldly dirt gets to one sometimes.

But about two weeks ago now, we found that my daughter-in-law who is really like a daughter to me, had cancer and that it was at an advanced stage, that she was in a lot of pain.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have much hope for her, but sometimes God insists we hope and who are we to argue?

God won’t be argued with much anyway. He isn’t like Obama who says go sit down and shut up when we protest. At least with me he doesn’t. It’s more like Francis Thompson in Hound of Heaven. He pays no attention to my stupidity at all.

I fled him, down the nights and down the days

I fled him, down the arches of the years

I fled him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears–
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after

But with unhurrying chase

And unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat–and a Voice beat

More instant than the Feet–

“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”

Whom will thou find to love ignoble thee;

Save Me, save only Me

All of which I took from thee I did take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.

All of which thy child’s mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:

Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”


We look so hard for what we believe is happiness, but it isn’t really, is it? It is more of the same. Another piece of furniture to use or not use, a car so that we can run faster.  We want to love yet fear the loss of  love or even set out to lose it because we don’t understand it. Or we don’t like the cost of it:


“For, though I knew His love Who followed,

Yet was I sore a dread

Lest, having Him I must have naught besides.”


It probably sounds a bit blasphemous to think God will be unvaryingly patient. Perhaps it sounds like taking him for granted. But sometimes it is just desperation and hope. We keep running as though we were going somewhere. In the end, there is really no place else to go. We have to stop and let the footsteps catch us.


***An after note. it is now late 2012 and my “daughter” died shortly after this article was written.  After the funeral we all went outside and released balloons. Every one of the balloons went straight up into the sun.

God’s footsteps caught up with her.