When my mind stops
Racing with a million thoughts,
When my heart stops
Pulsing Love through my veins,
Nothing of value will be lost
As the Words and Love live on.
From here til then
You’ll have my Eyes,
I will continue to love you
Til this body of mine
To the beckoning call of the soil.
When the time comes,
Please wrap my retired
Lovingly in fine linen
And lay my body
In the ground
To feed Life
Nothing will be wasted,
Nothing will be lost.
The Trees wept with the sky
Waving their arms in protest
As they watched in horror…
The smoldering ashes of progress
The Injustice of the World.
“Our Brethren… Our Cousins…”
All gone for the jaded,
The selfish retrograding gain
Of one species.
The privileged erect apes,
What is not theirs to own.
What was never theirs to destroy.
Anger and despair
Surround every branch
And every leaf.
The Sentient Beings find the Calm
And hold their tongues
Against the well of sorrow.
For the Wise Old Trees know
The winds are getting warmer
And that one day
Justice will be served.
She left no stone unturned.
Looking up at the swaying branches,
She knew this must have been the place.
One by one she searched,
Over-turning pebbles and boulders,
For the thing
She felt hopeful and doubtful
She would find.
The moist forest soil
Established itself underneath her long fingernails,
Cracked and chipped from
Finally, with rubble and destruction
She found what she had been
A faint smile etched,
A small tear dripped,
And she knew Life would never be the same.
Life and Death were taken from me.
When Life was taken – I was alone.
The world seemed to grow silent,
And everything looked fuzzy – as if I were only an observer looking through a filthy camera lens.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
I wonder how many times they’ve said that to a woman half-reclined with a thin sheet draped over her bare legs and cold gel sticking to her inner thighs.
I could not help but look down in disbelief at the abdomen that would not be expanding any time soon.
Life was taken from me.
When Death was taken, I was at the hospital. The very same hospital in which I gave life two years prior, only now it was stained with the sterilized stench of Death.
I tried to smile when the nurse joked that the hospital-issue treaded socks covered an entire half of my petite legs.
I tried to reassure the well-meaning women who accompanied me that I was ok – when I really wanted to cry and scream and tell them they were poor substitutes for the husband who simply couldn’t be there to hold me during the taking of Death.
I was relieved when I fell asleep – only to wake up to a devastation that escaped audibly and uncontrollably from my throat.
Why did they have to see me cry?
Death was taken from me.
For long afterward, I would often reach down and touch the place that created and housed both Life and Death.
A new normality nestled itself against my existence.
Yet I still grieve the Death that took precious Life from me.