Consolation

The distant hum—
as the sound of honeybees
dancing among sun-drenched flowers.
Masters of the rhythm
of that lazy spring day—
when they came for him.
He stood as handsome as ever,
Papa in his homespun uniform
with the sash that never did stay taut.
We did not expect him to
leave so soon.
Mama could not speak
for the roar in her ears
like ocean waves crashing
upon jagged rocks.
Mama could not move
for the forces of an undertow
which sucks the life
from an exhausted swimmer…
barely beneath the surface.
No.
Mama will not be consoled today.
I once heard someone say
that hate is not the opposite of love.
It is really indifference—
that kills.
Or, maybe it was the bomb.
They also say that when one is trapped
inside like a butterfly struggling to emerge,
One begins to see the awesome gleaming light.
She used to bask in its warmth
as a dog stretched
on a blanket of sand at midday.
She looked toward it
even though she knew it would burn
like a branding iron…
sizzling upon raw flesh.
They came in the night—
First, a barely perceptible whistle
like the little sparrow
on my windowsill every morning.
Then, an unearthly scream
which no human could possibly utter.
It was there I saw mama—
lying…
bleeding…
yet, no words came from her mouth.
No.
Mama will not be consoled today.

**

Psalm Sunday

A whisper—
Emerging as a whirl of crimson leaves
on a crisp autumn day,
windswept toward heaven.
Triumphant branches raised high above my head,
drew my eyes
toward the gleaming white light—
yet I could not see.
Rising from the hum of voices,
I thought I heard a sweet
yet unfamiliar tune.
Or was it so familiar
that I simply imagined it to be…
the voices of my ancestors?
Searching for its source
amidst the gentle sea of expectant faces,
I caught a glimpse…
of a dew-laden daffodil,
its elegant body gently swaying—
as if touched by the Hand of God.
Walking away from this dream,
my head turned back,
trying to capture fleeting images
of the prize—
which I eternally longed to grasp.
Weaving its path into the shadow of a memory
for only a moment—
where a simple step on familiar ground
became a path toward darkness so devoid of light,
that my eyes began to flash images,
as if they were afraid to forget—
to see.
Reaching toward me as a dying soul
pleads for her life.
Fleeing—
yet not moving.
Ever so mindful of what—
I had done.
Awash with tears,
which stung like salty spray
from an ocean angered by a force—
yet unknown.
When one reaches the depths,
one can only look up…
Through this narrow passage,
which opened to the heavens,
I, for the first time—
raised my eyes toward the Great Light.
And, as I learned to take my first gleeful steps,
came the marvelous revelation:
“Oh, what great joy comes in the Morning!”