My current battle with cancer has slowed me down more than I had thought possible (and much more then I am willing to tolerate.) I will be returning for more surgery, tentatively on August 12) if they can get my blood chemistry leveled up correctly; which will probably also help with the extreme fatigue).
However, this enforced quiet time has allowed me more time for memories and writing. Below will be one of the newer excerpts from my upcoming book Dancing With the Spirits of Shadowplay (my last volume of poetry written by a playful shadow). This poem was inspired by a bitter sweet memory of my oldest son when he was five years old and did not return from school in a timely manner. Frightening at the time, we found him (teachers, Novato Police and me searching for him for almost an hour) in a river about 1/4 mile away which was then raging due to the spring storms. With relief co-mingled with fear, I saw him standing in the middle of this river... his blue raincoat around him and the water raging around his knees. At that time, the mother in me (with the police following us), brought him up and chased him home for breaking the rules...)
Later, peaking in at him and his brother, safely asleep in their bunk beds, I remembered how amazing I thought his joy of life and his curiosity was... this is the poem of that wonderment.
WONDERMENT
(For My Son, Doug)
Terrified, I
found him in the rushing creek,
watched him float twigs
down the tiny falls,
across the narrow brook
that led to the raging river.
Always curious and somewhat defiant
He was the teacher of all things wonderful--
smooth stones,
soft mud,
caterpillars,
cold feet in shallow streams.
Through his eyes, I learned how to wonder again
as butterflies, orange and black,
Monarchs of their world
flitted across the path
and songbirds praised the violet sky.
The world welcomed a new spring day.
With tears of gratitude
And I grew young
along the creek,
in that fading evening light,
through the eyes of a boy just turned five.
And the veiled curtain of
Nature's rain....
