Sister Death taps us on the shoulder
She does not like that
We dance
Sing praises
To Saint Francis
How he cares for animals
And babies
She giggles
We have just finished dinner
And the door is open
It is a mystery how we feed ourselves
All our heart wants
Is cake and powder
Perhaps we are partners now
Inseparable
Huddled in the ashes of
Our hut
It is a shame there are no others
But I humbly accept
Her love
Our eyes are tired
Our limbs aching
We seem to be always waiting
I prefer an adventure
She says
There are no rabbit holes
Here
I reply
Just wells with no bottom
And no water
Like an empty font
Remember when we used
To go to the quiet place
Everything is closed now
I remember
She whispers
She is more than me
More than Saint Francis
And Sister Death
She is real
Precious
And holy.
This is beautiful and sad, Jae. I especially love the lines that begin "Remember when we used to go to the quiet place". You write so beautifully.
ReplyDeleteYes, very beautiful – and with its own quiet peace despite the sadness.
ReplyDeleteThe person who is near and dear to us, yes, she is holy. What marvelous, loving companions you two are!
ReplyDeleteAh, yes, "remember when we used to go..." and ah, yes, Sister Death is ever lurking these days, it seems.
ReplyDeleteSo many folks have disappeared down the rabbit holes recently. If there are none where you are then that's the place to be!
ReplyDeleteYou write with love and undertanding in your heart.
ReplyDelete