Here's the problem: how to convert sameness
into wonder without making it harder
to give myself permission to let go?
The morning light on the dark blue irises,
a walnut tree filled with a blackbird's song
make me unwilling to embrace death.
Maybe I should turn myself around
and make every moment
an epiphany, even moments
of excruciating pain
or sinks full of dirty dishes,
not just morning light and the walnut tree.
But death as an epiphany
is a contradiction in terms:
we move from light, love, hope, energy
into nothing, nowhere with no 'I'
to recognise anything
or recognise that there isn't anything.
Let's pray for the tiniest glimmer
of chiara oscura to mark the transition.
An eternity without beauty,
no wonder we call it death.
It has been said: “Life without music
would be a mistake”; I'll change that:
Death without beauty would be a mistake.
If I have lived other lives,
I have no memories;
cannot so much as recall
a sunrise or a baby laughing.
Where has all that beauty gone?
After our very last life
are we presented with
a tessellation of memories,
no character list, no context?
And have we become so refined,
we're not even interested?
Not for me, thank you; I'd rather remain
unregenerate, human, flawed,
open to beauty wherever it comes:
a friend's smile, light on the walnut tree.