26. Alive
a poem a day in the month of may
Friends,
We only have a few more days of writing and reading daily poetry left.
Yesterday in the comments, Larry asked me if I come up with each day’s prompts as I go or if I use a list, and the answer is I think through the theme for May a few months ahead of time, and as I sit with the theme I gather all the words before we start May.
Now, along the way I end up changing a few of the prompts that just don’t seem to fit, but for the most part thew words stay true to the overall theme.
And today’s word is alive.
I really enjoyed writing my poem for today, hope you like it, and I look forward to reading yours.
You are alive, my love. Not like someone groggily getting out of bed just in time to brew the coffee, but like a phoenix who has just shed their latest coat and wants to begin again. You are alive, my love. Not like someone who has disconnected from their own inner beauty, but like a woman taking her child self by the hand and vowing to never let go. You are alive, my love. Like the dawn that shows up every morning, like the dog that basks in the afternoon sun, like the firefly that appears in the heat of summertime. You are alive like no one else has ever been alive, and it makes the whole earth rumble with joy every time you realize it, and it makes the eyes of god well up with tears when you finally spread your arms wide and fly.
What is it to be alive?
Your death
struck me through
the heart,
An arrow
could not be truer.
And yet you still
seem so alive,
Your presence
as vibrant
in death,
even dearer.
When I see rainbows
and butterflies,
I remember you.
You touched so
many people
when you walked
an earthly path.
Your love shone so bright
while with us,
the glow remains present
while we are apart.
What is it to be alive?
To be present even
in death.
look, the sun is
shining and it’s time
to put down
the screen and go
out to the field
get some dirt under
your fingernails again
string up tomatoes
plant the peppers
without the buzz of
a podcast in your pocket
look, I know you
want to guzzle every
conversation, but what if
you drink in the steady pulse
of water through the drip line,
drink in the sounds of beetles
scuttling through straw,
of song sparrows trilling and
hummingbirds humming with
their whole bodies
What if you listened to
the conversations right here
with your muscles and bones
breath and sight
how, like the peas climbing
their trellis, you too
turn toward the sun
alive to everything
that doesn’t need
to be plugged in