Writing
In my day to day life I work with the dying.
(But don’t’ we all, really?)
I am surprised to notice that perhaps the most preparatory thing I do
to learn to be present with the slow decay
the withering of life force and vitality from the body
is to watch the flowers in my favorite terracotta vase
transition
from bright and voluptuous show pieces
to the dimmed and waning husks
I gently bundle together
and put in the brown paper sack that lines the bin in the cabinet.
I have discovered that I like the phase just before rot next best to fullest bloom.
When the shapes of individual parts are subtle but somehow more apparent,
like etched whispers or a far off echo my ears strain to catch
Tiny intrusions into beauty that have me peer to see where the flowering once was
And where it still clings
I hold my gaze, I practice not looking away.