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While things are happening, wonderful things,
Terrible things, things we shall not forget
For as long as we live, things to regret,
To be proud of (or not!), the so-called ‘slings
And arrows of...’ etcetera, the scary swings
And roundabouts of living—while we fret
That doctors may not cure us or that debt
Will sink our fledgling start-up—life grows wings.
For us, the world is coming to an end,
Our bitter tears and curses dun the ears
Of gods gone deaf, our guardian angels wince
To watch us build up castles of our fears
Or tear apart a clock we cannot mend.
Meanwhile, spring came;
a flower;
a bee;
this quince!
Out in the bitter cold of early December in my garden, I gathered a handful of fruit from my quince tree (just a low bush, really) and brought them inside to arrange in a bowl. All were pungent, some smooth and green, some yellow and blotched windfalls, more of a pear shape than a miniature lemon, some blackened husks rescued from leaf litter. How busy nature had been while I consumed weeks and months battling my cancer. The human sense of self all too often sets us apart from life around us, our awareness of mortality blinding us to our ultimate unimportance.
