The Homing...A Poem With Music in Response to Billybuc's Photo Challenge/Prompt #1
I wrote what follows as a comment on Bill Holland's hub, asking if it was too late to write a poem in response to a few of the images in his first photo challenge. (Thank you, my friend. :-)
I was struck with the beauty of these images, the meaning of home and how our memories can be like photographs -- reflections in diminishing moments of time that capture what we had, as it once was. Our perception of time has always fascinated me.
I wrote The Homing while listening to this video. When I begin to write a poem, the demands of work and daily life often cause me to store away the words in the alcoves of my imagination where I sense them scuttling about in hiding, rather like squirrels in the attic. Sometimes, music helps me find them again.
HAEVN - We Are (Symphonic Tales)
The view from our small attic window
No longer thrives. I sit on the wooden floor beneath it,
An orphaned child in quiet solitude.
Generations before my stay, and since, have bloomed
In this vacant dwelling that once was home,
Now shuttered in mourning, as a widow forsaken...
Bitten and worn from neglect
And the urging pale of nature's providence.
There is beauty in the forlorn stillness.
A thinning light glimmers motes of dust that emerge
As secrets from the darkness.
Fate rests peacefully in the corner beneath the eaves,
Hiding in the shadows of walls --
A lithe chameleon with crystalline eyes waiting to be seen.
Other castaways linger in a box filled with images
Wrapped in brittle strands of parchment.
Reflections of who we once were cling to each other
In such fragile arms.
Sighing, I rise.
They will be here soon, I think --
The strangers and heritors of indifference
To render our memories into clay and ash.
All that is abandoned returns to the earth from which it came.
I leave the attic through the floor and down a ladder...
My long skirt brushes against the creaking wood.
Passing through the ending doors,
I step into a brief ripening of summer.
How strange to drift again through the tenuous flow of hours.
Time is a willful measure
That binds the flesh to the becoming
Of what has already been.
My eyes closing, I walk past my epitaph
Carved in stone with thistle-weed hands that seek their roots
In a deepening curve.
Slowly, warmly, the horizon gathers me in a flowing embrace
And delivers me from the ebbing void.
Lightened and content,
I return to the homing.
Here, there is no estrangement of the heart,
No longing...no foreshadowing of mortality...
No dust or decay, or remembrance lost.
We are all here.
Our blooms, once pressed between the pages of time
Now share an unbounded, sensory garden of joy.
Such is the ecstasy of life
In this roundness of moment to moment of one.
Dedicated to the souls who lost their lives to the coronavirus...may they all find peace, joy and contentment in the homing.
© 2020 Genna Eastman All rights reserved.