The Last Week
Rochelle Holt
The sun shone with a brillaince
that has always made you yearn,
in subsequent incarnations, for sunshine.
in Ruth Montgomery's Companions Along The Way
The moon is full in the morning.
The mood is gold at night.
In my last week on earth
I have been filled
with sight beyond seven days
or dreams.
The experiment has been a mist,
a saffrom aura
permeating mind
penetrating body
both ignited with the passion
to live or to die
(seasons of birth)
as I walk content
blessed wholly in tune
with the music
I could only imagine
before creating music
symphony of stars and birds
of love and delight
in every green or fallen leaf.
The air is my breath
now crisp and chill
faint wisp of wind
cloaking these dancing bones
this singing heart
that lifts above
the chords of mortal flesh
wed to the light
even in shadows
in the dark sleep of the owl.
There are no tears.
All who haunt this fragile shell
have gone beyond
the weeping and the laughter
have risen over
the waves of aqua-fire summer
to ride an older steed
into the forest of winter.
And if you knew
this week, day, hour, minute
or second
were once and for all
forever the last
taste, touch, smell, sound,
your vision might also
bend to return
love to every stranger,
friend, relative or self
like the moon
like the sun
boldly reaching to embrace us all
in its waxing and waning
dim-bright light.
