Maybe it's the yellowing of the leaves on the trees in my front yard. And how the ash tree to the west always drops its leaves, nearly completely, before the one on the east side of the yard. To be sure, autumn has arrived. So my brain turns to the cycle of life and the puzzles of aging and the miracle of life itself. And how we muddle on despite pain and loss and loneliness. There's something resilient or just plain stubborn about us and I rejoice in that fact every day I get to sit up and breathe and experience a new day. Seven years ago this month I wrote this poem after surviving one of the darkest periods of my life. I love mixing mathematical and scientific terms with emotional ones, using them to describe feelings. And unless you're a total math geek you're probably about to grab a dictionary.
Asymptote
of Healing
Bruised
and battered, broken
Gaping
holes of longing
Lingering
within
Begging
to be filled with anything
Something
To
ease the pain of dealing
With
each new day that’s dawning
Mired
down
In the
persistence of living
Without
what you named essential
Now
lost to you forever
Acceptance,
faith and patience
Close
and mend the wounds internal
Approaching
Never
reaching zero
Healing
full yet not complete
What
remains alive inside
That
thinnest slice of quickness
Is the
scar of lessons learned
And
room though just enough
For
seeds of love to grow replete
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