Refections of the Past, Visions of the Future

Day stacks upon day, forming opaque windows behind me. These can be blown away at times, a clarity of vision in momentary glimpses. Here, a face most beloved, turning my bowels to water that reflects pain. There, a scent, sensed so briefly, like a camera flash leaving red dots in my vision. Floods of sensation follow, barely tolerated. Not all are plague days, but pain is recalled far more clearly than pleasure. This savings account of experience makes one rich with character and compassion. Cutting in the details of my sculpture, creating a face with my name. Here, the vertical line between brows, carved by the loss of love. There, the deep dimple in my cheek, where love was found again. Sometimes the brush strokes, the etchings, are strong enough to reach inside with hands of despair, the scalpel that sheds heart's blood or drills deep into bone and brain. That is where your memory lives, my son. No, not anymore in my womb, nor my arms. We cannot know the heights of joy and bliss without the depths of blue sorrow. To allow memory place is in my power to deny. A truth I had to learn. And in the knowing, I am set at liberty, for what can they possibly do to me now? I've paid my dues and fees for sunny weather. The Forcast is bursting with light, packed with windy autumn days, smelling of pumpkin spice, with cozy winter nights and the scent of wood smoke, with the crisp green of growing things and ripe swell of new life. The magic eight ball floats me a perdition… ”outlook good”.