Saturday, May 16, 2009

The Chair:

Spring thunderstorms come back
- the bolt, so they say, that leaps
from earth to sky, is hotter than the sun,
hurled from the clash of dark frustration
in a swirling cloud, to crack the air
with a nerve whip of light
and strike the ground numb
with sudden spite, such is the god
of fright.

In our little home, a hunkering
Hut crouched down to last the fury
Of the wind, my mother seeks the refuge
Of her corner seat – the days are past when
Any place could be secure – there’s just
This final chair to help her keep
Eternity at bay. With each boom above
I see her hands, grown bony small
Clutch the fabric of
The known – at any moment suffering may
take the comfort
Of this room away.

And with it every memory of when
She was red-flamed and tall
As any flower fed by rains of spring, full
Of fierce temper sudden
As the violent wind, a wit to match
Whatever nature might present,
And fertile as the bolt struck sod,
Laughing at the absurdity
Of man-made gods who talk a lot
But never cook or clean, partnered to
A man as sweet and wise as
Men can be – all this dissolves
As life recedes.

And as for me, her child, who
Has become the one who keeps, who
Do I have to teach me how to care,
And guide her spirit to release,
Besides the chair?

6 comments:

SBD said...

My eyes are a rain storm... Such insight, such beauty

Mary Beth said...

Well done Dan!

Dan Dutton said...

Thank you!

Anonymous said...
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Cathy said...

Made me cry too. Just lovely, Dan.

Dan Dutton said...

Cebah just asked me when you were coming to visit. She thought sept. seemed awfully far off and sparse.