Sometimes in the busyness of the day
I forget for a few minutes
and don’t feel the ache,
but when I first wake up
from the dream of sleep
to the nightmare of real life,
it is there
—the axe in my chest—
the cleaving pain
of remembering
my beloved father is dying
and all I can do is sing to him,
mother him,
tenderly stroke his head,
pray and cry,
and hold his sweet hands
still warm.
Gentle hands that touch
with a love strong and deep
know the body is no mere shell
for the soul,
but an outward expression of its being.
And when these hands soothe
calm and comfort,
when they restore dignity
to the broken frailty of an aging body
by the gentleness of their touch,
they affirm with silent symphony
that each person is precious,
body and soul.
For when the vessel is bent and broken,
light shines through the cracks
and love bursts forth in beauty.
Just East Of Crazy Land 