Do Lord remember. I remember you.
The petals of the pear tree you devised,
soft blasts of light, blown white-asunder,
heaps of blossoms on the grass around.
The long hot summers sing your praises:
all the lapping seaside shorelines,
black rocks breaking through the surf like you
break out so boldly in the slosh of waves.
The oystercatchers always own your call.
Each butterfly is yours, each moth and mouse.
Each firefly, too, now popping in the dusk
or, half-remembered, popping in my head.
The fall is yours, that tumbling season,
with its mold and mulch, its yellow paths
through mind-ways opened and pursued.
You made the crystals on the parlor pane,
those dazzle-diagrams and fractal flares.
I do remember you in every month.
I’m not forgetful, like my foolish friend
who lost his memory midway and fell.
I’m not that old and toothless woman
I have watched go down your garden path.
It’s quite a massacre, I must confess:
the dying generations, child by man,
the women disassembled one by one,
dear wives and daughters, mothers of us all.
I’m guessing you require so much destruction
just because you can, as doing does.
Don’t get me wrong—my tone tips over
once or twice a day to snarky digging—
but I do intend no disrespect.
I believe in you, the ways you went,
your hands that lifted me along the hills,
that pointed out (in case I didn’t notice)
many sudden turns I should have seen
but almost didn’t. You have never failed me,
though I know I sometimes pissed you off.
I believe I’m coming back to you again
one day beside myself, perhaps in glory
or, if less dramatic, as a snail or slug,
a butterfly or bee, an aardvark or a dog.
You have kindly shown me how it’s done,
and daily resurrections get me going.
I have learned to ride slow waves to shore.
There may be other tricks I’ve learned as well
in this good time we’ve been together.
Life is harder than at first I knew;
the course is long, blood-soaked, or worse.
I sometimes hesitate or stop to sigh.
Do Lord remember that I’m only human.
I have faults you’ve never seen before.
There’s probably a touch of hubris there,
but let it ride. You’re good at that, I hear.
Do Lord remember me as I do you.