The Comfort of the Desolate

Desolation

     Nature is disrespecting my grief. Twelve inches of rain chooses dry and forlorn September and has created a false Spring. 

I don't want it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse the hope.

Still, though, my gaze is drawn to the dew on my Bermuda grass, as blue as a sleepy baby's eyelids;

the chill in the air finds my skin.

An immigration of every kind of fungi and mushroom has invaded the borders of my potted plants. They live.....and

I am stabbed again.

How can hope survive? 

How can the world ignore the tremendous disappearance of YOU?

                                                                 

How can the essence of YOU be reduced to just a measure of chemistry; how could the carbon in your cells disperse and reform and go back into the Earth, my son? I don't accept it. 

I can't.

     Yes, yes...I can imagine everything being "ONE" and visualize that you are now a part of all of nature;  the "Circle of Life".....bu that is just the light in the closet people turn on to scare away the monsters waiting there. They want me to shut up and feel better so that they can get on with life: so they can get back to their dinners and husbands, and children, and grandchildren, and jobs, and politics, and dirty dishes.

Sure, there may be some great big cosmic system at work; our souls may precede this life, and continue after.........

But not Today.

    Today I need  a grey sky;

A moaning gale;

Today I need dark, hopeless frost on barren trees.

I need empty, dusty fields.

I need wastelands.

Orwell.

Nietze.

Leonard Cohen.

You are gone.

You are gone.

You are gone.

And as cruel as this announcement seems, there is something more cruel. That's why I need howling winds across icy steppes and relentless and endless rolling seas. I need Nature to wrap her arms around me in agreement of the deep darkness of this. 

You are gone.

And I must stay.

I miss you Biggun. 

                          Momma