A Gathering
of Leafy Edges
This rippling creek,
my sanctuary. I listen
to water music,
body tense, though panic and pain
are moving on. He recoups
back at the house, with mended heart
and dull gray hospital
socks warming his feet. I remember
praying in that
chilly pre-surgery room: naked, vulnerable
beneath his gown,
beneath my fear.
We sent love to his
skipping heart valve. Asked muscle and bone
to accept the cutting.
This knife is miraculous, not savage, we
said.
How else would the
body understand? Doesn’t a stabbing
or a surgical repair
elicit a similar wound?
 |
| Summer crocus blooming along our walks, the day the farmer came home from hosptial |
On this day, as creek
waters flow, I ponder blood
pulsing through human
hearts. Wild asters nod as leaves
sashay to earth. Intuitively,
I know he and I have
stepped across a surprising
threshold. Spring memories
have faded. Summer
has drained away too, quick and cool
like well water circling
the hole at the bottom of the old pump
trough. In a paradox
of blowing gales and subtle hints, autumn
has truly arrived. Time
measured in births, deaths, cancer,
wellness, slamming
doors and loving, relocating and a
cracked open chest.
We have grown, fruited, released many seasons.
I process that waking moment - seared
into time. Waking to
a repaired heart valve, he in a haze
of pain, me watching
his instinctive recoil of body. A too
late attempt at
shielding vulnerable parts,
his gasp of breath
and flail of arms, fighting that gagging tube
stuck down his
throat. As outside leaves fall in colors red
and gold. Life ignites
in beauty and sometimes in
shock. Nurses hover
over, hold down arms, murmur courage,
check beeping monitors.
And I wake too, as helpless to assist as
I
am in halting the flow
of time.
Somewhere, someone awakes in the ICU. Hopefully. Painfully.
All we can do is stand
by, clutching hearts, breathing,
praying, companions
always awaking to beauty and struggle. After
trauma, I take myself
down to the water. Where gurgle of brook
and creak of swing
comfort me.
Where red sticks of
dogwood erupt from green banks like crimson
sentinels cheering onlookers
into full, wild living! The throaty call
of
a raven cuts through sighs
of breeze and sway of trees, inviting a
sweet s l o w slipping of tension from my
shoulders.
 |
| Our yard and heart bench, another sanctuary. |
Tell me dear oak, standing
so thick and silent, does autumn
tighten your middle?
Does your breath catch and your sap
run anxious before calmly
letting go? Do you watch your leaves
fall in molten
gold, and smile with unburdening?
I’ll tell you my
story and you tell me yours. On that day, while sugar
maples held their
color and clouds bounced recklessly in brilliant
skies, a surgical team
stopped my beloved’s heart. A strange
intimacy, no? Closer to him than
I’ll ever be, yet they don’t
know how he likes his coffee. Do
surgeons think of huddled
humanity left in waiting rooms across the halls?
If they did, could they bear it?
Wind gusts ruffle oak
boughs as the tree replies: “Surgeons
are trees, strong
and soundless, setting bodies and hearts on fire.”
Ah yes, submitting
to the scalpel is like falling in red and gold. Fear
is the storm that rips leaf
from nurturing branch. A gathering of leafy
edges floating softly to their
other mother – earth, is trust.
Cutting, curing,
waiting, healing, falling, living blur together, the
colors of autumn, of life.
The heart beats. And loves. Broken
hearts
heal. We too, like leaves of autumn, turn gold and red, glow,
fall,
and are cradled by earth.
 |
| Beautiful trees and hills on the other side of our driveway |
