Death is the polisher

When age attracts dust

She is the humming Woman in Black

Swooping feather brooms over

The world’s woodwork

‘Til new reflections cast light white as the

Milky Way

 

She comes and goes

And comes again

In a zodiacal promise

Like the gold circlet pendulum of a Grandmother clock

Making her rounds and tasting of night and salt

And dusty broom bristles at our first

Brush with loss

 

She is the bird’s round granite eyes

The cawing of the hungry, waiting crows

Circling, circling

Over trees whose leaves burn

Bright as embers

Whose leaves are beautiful

Because they are dying

 

The leaves who too will soon be touched

Buried by Mother Death

In a coffin of snow as white as the ring of the

Milky Moon

She is the moon

Who dies herself and makes us bleed

As the wheel spins round again every 28 days

 

Clearing the sky of light to

Fill our eye sockets, our ears, our belly buttons, the bracelets of our wrists

All the round places of our bodies like bowls

Filling with darkness

Nothing

But an empty space perfect

For Something

 

Death is not merciful

She will not bend the Circle of Life

Into a symbol of infinity

To allay our fears

With comforts of straight and predictable lines

When we are left groping through the vortex waiting

For the moon’s halo to illuminate the path again

 

But she keeps her promise to come and go and

Come again

Turning off the lights to

Do the dirty work before She

Flicks the switch back on

Displaying newness we didn’t even know

We needed

 

So when Darkness turns the doorknob to our souls, welcome her in

Seat her with round cushions of silk and serve her tea in

Circular China cups and watch her weave metal hoops into decorative wreaths

And remember her visits are temporary and that

Just like Time

The moon is a circle

Not a line

 

Relephant:

The Ethereal Darkness. {Soul Art Poem}

 

Author: Felicia Bonanno

Apprentice Editor: Brandie Smith/Editor: Emily Bartran 

Photo: irisb477/Flickr