Home

.

0319_Grasses_72

.

My Home

is in a thousand things

it is where you are

now, soft asleep

it is

where we lay

years ago, moons ago

when we woke up

at the same time in the morning

facing each others eyes.

Before all this

and still now

it groans in the wind of the hills

and in the aching of lovers lost

and it is in the mourning

and in the living

it is down that street

where the cat fought the fox

it is in your legs

swinging

on the line

it is in

the growing of things

from warm soil

from seed, that grows seeds

that fly away

It rests abroad, in other hearts, too,

forgotten, sometimes,

remembered, often.

It is in trees, green and orange

it is in leaves, new and fallen

and yes, it is in the wind

on the grasses

here now

stroking the lines from my face

I have always been

more at home

in the small moments

of everywhere

than

only in one place

and that,

whilst precarious,

is surely

also

a comfort.

.

© C. Rennie 2013

Fragments

.

.

.

.

.

.

My Gran, as a young woman, and our letters to each other, collected over several years some time ago.

I kept hers, and only recently found that she also had kept mine. I was very touched to discover this.

It’s great to read our parallel stories over time, the years having passed.

I wanted to write the perfect words for the feeling, but no words would come.

I knew somehow that Maya Angelou might have found them..I was right..

.

“When Great Trees Fall”

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”
― Maya Angelou

.