Up high in the air, in the altitudes, it is silent--surprisingly silent. Colors are muted, light seems to refract differently and an overwhelming sense of solitude pervades. But mostly it is silent. You'd think that sounds must travel forever from the surface of the earth to the outer edges of time, but no. Just. Silence.
When I am fortunate enough to view an early-evening sunset with the kind oranges, timid peaches and accommodating pinks brushed across the sky, I fantasize that this is my mum's nod to me across the vastness. She liked going to the park to watch sunsets. She found a bit of comfort, maybe even hope, in learning that stars never die. They become a supernova and cast their remnants across the universe, raw material for something next.
Weeks after her passing I heard her call my name, once, in an urgent but excited tone. But up high in the air, in the altitudes, it is silent. Surprisingly silent.
How far the wind does go,
without someone to know,
an infinite distance,
perchance to be witnessed,
not wanting recognition or show.
The movement less apparent,
moves seed & pollen divergent,
we give no heed,
to the smallest deed,
we little appreciate what's inherent.
But when it topples a building,
or ignites or fans a fire ring,
we see its power,
we pray for shower,
&
*that's* when we do the measuring.
When I am fortunate enough to view an early-evening sunset with the kind oranges, timid peaches and accommodating pinks brushed across the sky, I fantasize that this is my mum's nod to me across the vastness. She liked going to the park to watch sunsets. She found a bit of comfort, maybe even hope, in learning that stars never die. They become a supernova and cast their remnants across the universe, raw material for something next.
