Tonight, the Cicadas Value Silence: A Poem for Patricia Lois Clifton
|
|
The cicadas value silence tonight.
Muted clicking, ticking, and buzzing yield to the sweet hush of her last breath. She is free. The sun has dipped. A chorus of hissing invites a calm evening. Cooler temps push back the heat of early August. It is cruel how ALS takes the body—not the spirit. The soul is quite different. Jazz-like. Cageless. R and B music from the 70s: Earth, Wind, and Fire. Franky Beverly and Maze. Different. No pain meds. No weak muscles. No breathing tubes. No nurses disrupting sleep patterns at 1am, 3am, trying to extend life, provide comfort. “They are really trying to keep me here,” she says. She is ready. Her smile still inspires day- light. Always will. Past images still flash. Old conversations find new meanings. Insights yawn, flap wings, and find altitude. They are alive with sounds. I reach for so many black and white yesterdays, picture frames, lessons, twirling moments on careful fingertips. Tonight, small creatures see what I hear and hear what I see. They feel the rage on my skin and the relief escaping from my shoulders. They honor a safe passage, a weightless flight from this place. They know what I know. And I know the quiet is heavy. Her fading heartbeats pulse in the roots of trees, loud and present, a strange echo or language in my head, living in this mild sea of natural blackness. She leans into the Most High’s warmth, crossing over, waving from the sky, quickly departing this unique holding pattern, this temporary thing. Flesh. The earth is raw, volatile, and shifting. This moment is flawless. The Creator flashes a smile, prepares the way. She returns home, like all the others before her. CLOCKHOUSE Volume Thirteen
|