The clock does not know
it will continue ticking
but we will be gone;
the garden will remain
in velvety verdance
and someone else will tend
the plants and trim their wild ambitions;
the birds will arrive at dawn
waiting for the whistling woman
as she scatters the seeds
of their longings;
The sky will not crack
the clouds will float
the rain will course through
the gutters we have called home
but the roof will shelter someone else’s memories
our laughter will compost in the soil
we will be flung, a diaspora of family
floating in planes above the turbulence
hoping for gentle landings
Ugh, I love your poetry! And I mean that "ugh" as a content sigh :)
This reads to me like something I would find at the end of a novel, this excerpt, speaking of loss but of how the earth continues providing others and nurturing. I felt a melancholy tone yet also a gentle acceptance that us "being gone" is not a terrifying concept but a cycle. That the Earth will still be cared for. That hopefully, we will find a place of rest after we have taken our final breath.
There's longing and an awareness in this piece, a subtle thought perhaps that we will return to earth peacefully, or that we will be remembered.
Oh thank you so much. It was written as I pack up my mother's home in South Africa, my sister had just left to emigrate to Scotland, taking with her, her daughters and grandchildren. I live in Australia. It feels like we are being thrown to the wind. Trying to stay calm and hold it all together. Some days are easier than others...writing helps though.