"The Waxing And The Waning"

The Waxing and the Waning

The Waxing:
Today I heard a song about
how God claims all the works of art
we fail to imagine, as though there are
only so many and they’re waiting
in a limbo for us to
see them, rescue them,
paint them, write them.
Why is He so impatient?
They must have form if He can take them
even before we get a chance.
Should we cry out an apology,
please let us have an endless chance,
don’t take them,
we’ll get them
and if not us,
then our descendants,
you’ll see?
Do we cry out our sorrowful puzzlement,
what did we miss?
Or should we struggle harder to imagine,
letting pieces fall where we think
they shouldn’t, letting paint run
from the canvas into our hands,
speaking what we never dared to before?
Can it help when nothing lasts and
what isn’t here yet doesn’t have a
chance to arrive, when we must be
existing in a limbo, an endless sleep,
feeling like we’re having that dream
where you’re falling,
sick and breathless
but never landing
on anything?

The Waning:
Yesterday, I crawled through the garden
on my hands and knees kissing each flower
goodbye because they
don’t have long.
I like doing this...
it makes them feel better.
Then a hand under my chin
lifted my face,
I couldn’t see who it was — the
sun was in my eyes — and
I was asked to explain. Yes,
I know all things die, yes
I know nothing lasts
but sometimes you just have to cry,
to be with them and with the waning,
to bury yourself in the dirt
next to them and because
you don’t have much
longer than they do so
isn’t that reason enough?

©JEF 1997