On The Verge of Death, A Blossoming


On The Verge of Death, A Blossoming

What wondrous world it would be
To not live by the years
To not abide by seasons
And the metrics, measures they breed.

That I am going into autumn; deceasing
trees, windswept shrubs and unpleasing
darkness of short days, sharp breeze:
simply – a deadening, Fall is, a deadening.

But if it were that every Fall
was actually a Spring and it is and can be
if I pattern my thoughts upon you and see
the world through your mouth and feet.

Because in your world down under,
my summer was your winter.
And while we walked in light layers,
you lot were bundled in insulators.

So, it is not a lie then that the big blue skies:
industries of Nature’s Plan before our eyes,
and palm trees, Pacific breeze, bumblebees
work to produce the machine, the gears…

…that turn our cranks or slow us down.
That lift us at sun-rise five at dawn in Canada.
Or, debilitate our moods, deplete brawn
at three fourty-five in Cork City or London town.

What wondrous world it would be
to not live by the years!
To not abide by seasons!
And the metrics, measures they breed.

To always be plucking tomatoes like in Wakefield!
Kale by the free bunches in the rich soil!
TV scene, oh, just watching the blowing leaves of trees, me.
Natural attractions, the breeze, and a beautiful, deep sleep.

To not be forcing gestation
in a mad dash toward our progression!
To always observe, to always question
what Life we are leading…

Always choosing to create it.
Instead of letting Life lead us
blindly by its temporal, misread Reality
to an early death
before our blossoming.

Oh what a wonderful world – I think –
if we felt it deeply in patience
instead of waiting to be a Patient
and on the verge of death
to welcome it.

Sylvie Hill 2016