Remembering—oh, remembering—my mother, June Cochrell: June 27, 1924 to August 11, 2011.
The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.
—Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day
there are lines in this poem that pierce the heart. i have tears.
ReplyDeleteboth for your loss and my own.
only mine was many years ago... not just one.
yet i can say there is not a day in the net that is not there that i have not thought of her.
mother.
with love and light to you christie,
tammy j
Thanks, Tammy. So much to say, and yet nothing, about mothers and their loss.
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