I hope to turn again one day –
turn from dark death thoughts to life,
to rise from the fire into lightness,
floating like the ashes that rise above
the flames and escape to the sky.
I hope to return to this time
lent us, because I hope the garden
will return from under snow, because hope
is dusted upon the slender one standing
in the distance, haloed by the sun.
This double Ronka poem owes something to T.S. Eliot’s poem, “Ash-Wednesday”, which begins:
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
listen to T.S. Eliot reading the poem
Just enough snow to make us believe
that today is a blank page and
on these faint lines, we can write
a short story with a happy ending
or a heroic couplet ending a poem.
The window screen divides the scene
into thousands of pixels, and each one
will need to be filled, black or white,
on or off, here or not here.
A crossword puzzle we can never complete.
Latin vaccinus, from vacca “cow” because of
early use of cowpox virus against smallpox.
I remember the massive Sabin oral vaccine
for polio first developed by Jonas Salk.
Vaccines stimulate the production of antibodies
provide immunity against one or several diseases
using disease to treat without inducing disease.
“Our greatest responsibility,” said Dr. Salk Vaccine,
“is to be good ancestors.” We too
use our life to inoculate against life.
A 1963 poster featured CDC’s national symbol of public health, the “Wellbee”, who was encouraging the public to receive an Sabin Type-II oral polio vaccine in campaigns across the United States. (via Wikimedia)
Curled on a grassy circle of sunlight,
looking up at the clouds, I am
seven years old again. My parents are
healthy, happy and will always be alive.
Sun-powered, I can do anything on Earth.
A dark cloud blocks the window’s sunbeam.
I return to the cold, wood floor.
My old eyes -sun-blinded – burn and tear.
When I stand up, my body protests
and aches from more than just years.
Even the new plants in the garden
have had enough of the spring rain.
Winter lingered. True spring passed us by.
Warm, moist, green jumped to May summer.
Brushing rosemary and sage scents the air.
Robins brush their wings against window screens
attacking reflections of their own nesting instincts.
They started nesting in the pine tree
outside the bedroom window under our gaze.
Today, three blue eggs match the sky.