Carol: Christmas, 1999
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#71 Carol: Christmas, 1999
Her hands move through the thicket with care
Weeding and pruning the prickly hedges,
Restoring, against entropy, some semblance of order.
She offers me a running commentary.
One blossom is snipped because it doesn't measure up:
One to be displayed where its perfection can show;
One is taken that its neighbor may better bloom.
She warns me to use gloves when sorting out this tangle.
Not relishing the carving of thorns, I do protect my hands.
Before the year ends, she too is snipped.
I never learned to wear gloves on my heart.
"And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings." W. Shakespeare
"And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living." T.S.
Eliot
"While man is growing, life is in decrease;
And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun." Edward Young
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"Men are never really willing to die except for the sake of freedom:
therefore they do not believe in dying completely." Albert Camus
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