“Bells tolled a mourning
Angels on high
Heads in their hands
Last Christmas morning”
I find comfort in the tomb
that holds the virtual focus point of you.
I can lay the roses here that you did love.
In some ways, in the back yard of my second life,
I am one step closer. It does feel that way.
You passed away on Christmas Day
and even though it was that special holiday
now it means more to me these memories
on such a happy day to be remembering.
Thinking of the night the oropopo owls hooting from highest trees,
moon bright night of pale blue distant lightning,
the three of us hearing the ghosts parading down the hill.
You hold our hands, and we are children captivated by spirits,
protected by you,
wagon wheels bumping over rocks,
bells on oxen tinkling,
supernatural invisible wind-chimes.
You tell us how lucky we are,
to bear witness to this unexplained phenomena of our superstitious town,
the caravan of carts and men
traveling down our muddy roads at midnight once again,
never to be seen but so clearly heard,
the footsteps, the calling out to their teams
the grinding of the wheels,
lumbering painted carts from the past.
We, your small children, wild-haired, in our night gowns
keeping silent our mouths open in awe,
holding each one, a side of you
connected like three shimmering spirits ,
we watch with only our ears, ancient brethren,
neighbors from beyond still en route to some unknown destination
eternally in motion, ghosts from our collective past, the drivers and ox- carts.
I’m not sure why this is the memory of you,
that today I hold most dear,
but I do know so much has changed since that distant apparition.
I call to you on the anniversary of yet another year,
grateful to all my written history that for a wonderful yet short time,
I knew you, loved you, was with you by your side
as your daughter and you… my magic mother.
Maybe it’s that I hope, in the back of my mind,
some day to hear,
like the haunted ghost carts of yesteryear.,
Oh please if it be only your life -filled laugh,
just one more time,
that could break through death’s festive veil
and reach my ear.
The Cloud Forest Misty Shores SL
*footnote: a picture of two oropopo owls. Aren’t they wonderful?