Ripples
1.
When we are dead
And nestled under the ground
Or scattered over favourite seas
And special places -
The mountain will say nothing
The trees will not moan
And the river will be moving slowly
For someone else.
All that you know
All the thoughts you have owned
Will pass into nothing.
Only your vacated body
Will provide sacred compost
For those that inherit the earth.
And only those things you created
In the minds of your children,
In the people you touch,
In the art you leave behind,
Will show you have been here
And that you loved.
2.
We are
the stones
that sink
when flung
into this
still lake.
If we give
our living
plummeting
momentum,
let velocity
and passion
HURL
us forwards
without restraint -
it may be
that our
ripples
will reach from
bank to bank
to be felt
by those
we never
touched:
through the
blaze
of our own
comet tail light
across
their heaven.
(This poem was partly inspired by Irvin Yalom's psychotherapy text on death anxiety "Staring At the Sun", which talks about the notion of Rippling - what we leave behind us as a comfort in the face of death and a means by which we can seize our lives).
That was beautiful Hannah! very moving! x :}>
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