The day it happens is not a day you plan for.

If it was planned, it was contrived.

A watched pot never boils.

 

There you are

ambling along

minding your own business

when suddenly the road falls out from under you.

You tumble. 

You reach for handholds in vain.

You may even call out to passing crows for instructions.

 

On the way down you think:

This is it! This is how I go out!

There's no coming back from this!

And, of course, you're correct.

Nothing resembling your former self will remain.

It's like a bone picked clean of its marrow.

The last clump of wheat in an autumn field

meeting a freshly sharpened scythe.

 

When it happens, 

if it happens for real,

you're brought back down to the level of the earthly.

Your heart aches in ways you didn't think possible.

You're sure your next breath is your last

but then The-Mystery-Behind-All-This has the last laugh.

 

Then and there you're finally brought to that oft-spoke precipice;

the one where countless others have heaved up old lives,

and you realize, with two sets of freshly cleaned eyes,

that you have met what the ancients call 'a Clear-Mirror.'

 

Graves of the past become wombs.

The simplest of words start healing wounds.

The one before you becomes a teacher

in how to put things down, and how to grow.

 

And just about the moment you start to utter a word of rejoice,

your own soul pipes-up to chide you:

"...as if you ever had any choice."


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: 28th Night / Melancholy Moon / Roy Mattson

 

 

 

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