Marie Beswick-Arthur got me started writing again. I found her poem, Ninth Day of March and it says it all. What an apropos title - the day before Frank passed. Im writing the chapter I wanted to write but couldnt start... Now I have. Ninth Day of March by Marie BeswickArthur Rubenstein For some, life means a heartbeat, Simply a muscle, Nothing more. Never comparing its rhythm to ancient drums. For some, life means childhood. A youthful phase. Ending with certainty at eighteen years. For others, life is matter. A scientific feat. No play-time or hurray-time, No melodic beat. For some, life begins at twenty, or forty, or seventy-three. An elevation on the mountain that is life. The backpack is heavy and the sun burns. Each sweltering step higher, the load seems greater. But cool air at this altitude refreshes. Marvel the view. Snowflakes melt on contact with heated skin. First cooling, then chilling. Reach into the pack lying on the rocky peak. Retrieve a blanket then wrap it ‘round a shivering body. Wonder at summer’s green and summer’s blue beneath. Heart-pounding powerful sounds, reaching great distances, yet... Gentle enough to be a whisper. For some, life is a single fragile heartbeat. Long enough to make music. Not long enough for lyrics. Life need not be measured in time Only lived to the fullest. Each day a gift. For what is time? And what is life? And what is a lifetime? A performance on a blue and green globe, A park where we play with others, Whereby we each carve our initials on the trunk of a massive oak, Make our mark in little villages, shires, and continents. With loving embraces, With sincere acts of Welcoming babies, And sorrowful goodbyes. A condition of existence In which we search for the secrets of the universe, Hoping, Believing, Knowing, That the reveal will be beyond comprehension. And in that, perhaps life, as we don’t know it, is eternal. Photo taken the Ninth Day of March, 2014
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 23:17:41 +0000
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