Under friendly fire I had a revelation. Call it foxhole faith or just plain acceptance. I made the observation
while I was talking with Ricardo sitting around the dinner table. His brother-in-law had died recently.
His number was up at 78. I said that was a good high number. Ricardo says, " Whoa, wait a minute."
I am a month and days away from 77 and 78 does not seem like a very high number. Yeah! Suddenly I am
saying I am not so far off from 78 either. Revelation. Realization. How old is old? It ain't 78.
There are things we want to do. To see. The grandkids grown and graduating from college and getting
wedding invitations from grandchildren. Is a bucket really what drives your life? How old do we want to
be? Old enough to do things in health.
Yesterday I found out Allen fell and broke his hip. Awesome farmer that has taught his boys to farm the
oats on their big acreage. He is hindered by Parkinsons but will not give up; driving around his land on his
John Deere go anywhere vehicle loving his land. Will he come back? He is in that 78 range. If he can
survive this winter literally in his life. I always think of the Winter of Discontent and experience it myself in
these sunlight deprived days. If only we believe in Spring and can last to tilling garden and joyous for weeds
to pull. Yes, the snow will melt but damn it's 8 inches white and it ain't melting for the extended forecast.
Believe Allen in spring.
I have vowed to die on Sacred Ground. Will I be able to do this I do not know. I laughed with the boys
at the local Heisson store. I said, " We are all going down the tubes, but I am holding my head up and
fighting the descent all of the way. Take away my old super scent ability--okay. Dull away my sharp
old mind. But don't take my love of M or our land. Don't take away my friends. As long as we breathe we
must have faith that there is another Spring of daffodils and tulips even though they are buried in a foot now
of snow.
The
poet as prophet
Those
poet words not filled with pelf
Strong
sayings trying to prophesy
Primitive
pictures on cave walls
Heaven
sharing crude lithographs
Good
ones didn’t waste breath on explanations
They
lived heaven right here
In
this garden of Eden
They
knew some others
That
walked with them on earth
They
wanted others to share their beliefs
Religion
just wasnt their thing
Preaching
to a flock of diversity
Sacred Ground 50.
Oh holy ground oh sacred ground
Your life blood is in my veins
Crushed deep with mortar and pestle
To fine crumbly soil
It fills my soul
Then you rain oh mother life
I woke up living on this rich mantle of earth
I cannot kiss or embrace you more
You fill out my bones
You give my body reason
