Remembering our Descendants
The day comes when you realize
you are not young anymore, at least
not in the way you thought you would stay~
though the heart leaps always
with the coursing of the eternal spring.
The wheel turns~the circle widens
and you now occupy a simpler place~
the circle of your importance dissolving,
until you see that you are more
a field of light than the flaming arrow
that once burned a hole through the sky.
And in this harvest, we feed the world
with our offerings, fully given.
And the rest, the chaff, goes back into the fire
that sustains those who will come long after
we are gone from this place.
After the inevitability of our fall,
of our many falls, after the surrender
to our own exquisite dismemberments,
we know we are not any of the identities
that have ever claimed us. Ever.
Some things are created and destroyed~
and this life is a long kiss that opens us
to the beauty of our own disaster
and inevitability of our blessed return.
We know the way grief and ecstacy
couple again and again ~like two hawks
spiraling up the current. And from those heights
we cry out, as we see our own changing face
in the sea waves, in the wildflowers,
in our children running full stride
in the fields of the world.
If only we could wear these wings
of our second life with unwavering love
and merciful ferocity~and live as the ancestors
our descendants will remember
as the ones who would not turn away
from the impossible
or give up when all seemed lost.
Yes~ as the ones who held nothing back
as they rode through the center of the storm
relentlessly tending what matters most.