Editor’s Note: this is a poem by Bette Korman, artist, author, poet, museum director, and spiritual entrepreneur. Although it does not directly reference grieving for loved one, it will resonate for widows and widowers of a certain age.
“ Old Age”……….
patterns that fall apart and
can’t be sewn back together because the fabric has shred
too far apart to repair.
Why didn’t someone tell us
about this particular nuance of getting old?
Lives disappear in the middle
of intense “hub bub”, lost in
dark shadows never to be seen
again.(Does anyone care?)
Can you mend a broken chair
several times and still continue
to use it in the same old way?
The need to cherish and
continually patch up and
restore past dreams and
fantasies is certainly necessary
but it seems to become harder &
harder to carry the torch,
overcome entropy and ratchet up
pockets of glistening spirit to light the way.
If we had known more would we
have done things differently?
Can shining bright lipstick
exclaim the strength of who we are, and put a stamp on our fluctuating portable domain
that defines our status as a twinkling star in the nighttime black velvet galaxy?