The Winter Garden

Looking for the light that lives within darkness,
Shattered bits of earth,
A swirl of broken pottery standing like sentries
in the winter garden.
Clay slowly returning to earth
Such beauty in that
That dying,
That emptying.

My mother’s face
Deeply etched,
Disappears.
My father’s chin cracked
Open,
The spirit so quiet.

The tall mullein now lies empty,
Decaying beside the young sprout.
This young one seems to be waiting
Again that great quiet,
That lull
Before the brink
Of Spring.

Oh, to die so well,
That all that is left
Sings

But what of my passion?
Where is the longing fulfilled?
In one swift stroke of the brush?
Or in that final sigh?

When dreams die
I will eat from the green shoots that grow from underneath the bones.