of course i went to her wake today
and smoked myself empty
until i was full of a new and white gold hope
shining on the horizon.
i awoke and a silvery rain had washed away
the despondency of the past
and born a child who was a woman
with an infant's far-reaching dreamscape potential
and a crone's un-whitewashed wisdom.
as graveyard dirt fell upon the casket
i vowed to with it bid adieu the mistakes of the past
likewise, all the old trophies must be boxed up
for those trifling achievements belong to a child
who is gone.
the woman who follows must prove herself
not at games and contests;
with great deeds alone.
the cost of mediocrity, hard to relinquish though it may be,
carries an added price not immediately recognizable.
the daughter of change
could hold the rain lit world in her palm
or let it crush her
but can take neither path innocent of the other.
the simple solutions come sporadically
the eternal process of falling and climbing is ferociously natural.
daunting prospects and dizzying heights
weave our lives.
the survivors can tell the difference
when the sweet bodies of confused children
are laid to rest
truth comes in the half-light between day and night
and things are less fascinating
as her world becomes her own.

back to notes from the little black book