At the ending, what really remains?
A plot, a stone, an urn, a few photographs?
What memory will I be when I am no more alive?
Now, more life behind me than before me,
The question is more live than before,
I find myself posing, framing moments –
Oh, how vain as Friend Night gathers!
Will he recall my tattoo’d shoulder thus bared?
Did his memory “snap” my hair spread across the pillow?
I am a small woman, I’ve led a small life…
No monuments for me unless of my making?
But I am content with that, no mistake,
I once was not, but now I am at peace,
My “raindrop” has had instants of “sparkle”,
Tis sufficient if he knows I loved with intent,
Tis sufficient if my children recall a lullaby sung,
A joke shared in laughter or tears dried,
Sufficient, if friends remember a warning given,
A book gifted, a story revealed, an effort made,
Fame is fickle and often defiling,
It warps reality out of shape for approval,
Better quiet truths unyielding for me.
They say “What is remembered, lives.”
Is that true, and is it a good?
We remember wars – and refight them ever,
We remember hurts – and revenge them often,
I’d sooner be forgotten than live that zombie life!
The goods that we recall, we seem rarely to repeat,
Only the burr ‘neath our saddle gets attention,
Yet, I think, “Did he see my hair that day?”
Or, “Oh, how the wind caught my skirts prettily!”
Thus, perhaps, feels the rose before the final dissolution?
So, let me fade with grace….a fall of petals?