Many if not
most of us have to weather a winter of the heart at some time during our lives; sometimes a winter that never quite passes, but surrenders to spring and other, kinder seasons of life as it proceeds to beat for the best rather than the worst of times. It is then we most need to be reassured that we are loved; it is love, and love
alone, that comforts us and will see us through to another spring. It may be
the love of family, friends, or perhaps a pet. Whatever, can there be anything sadder
than a person having no love in their life to which they can turn for comfort
and inspiration in his or her hour of need?
I once
worked with a Home Library Service. Among many lovely people I visited on a
regular basis was a very old lady who lived alone. I asked her once if she was
lonely. She replied, “In the sense that I miss people, yes. But how can I be
lonely for long in the company of so many ghosts who love me as I love them?
Memory, you know, doesn’t have to be a well of tears. It can just as easily be
a garden of all things bright and beautiful that will never stop growing unless
you stop caring for them. Stop caring, “she added with a dazzling smile, “and
you’re all but dead already.”
SUNNY
DAYS, PASSING STORMS
Wintry
sunshine, breaking through
a fine
mist of fun things done,
summer
places known, kinder times
to memory
consigned yet gladly retrieved
now and
then when we are lonely, to enjoy
all over
again like a toy always kept
in a
special place that’s yours, mine, ours,
for
rediscovering things that matter
more than
rose-tinted tears of self-pity;
the
simple joys of peace of mind
secured by
friendship’s hugs, kisses,
cuddles,
confiding poems, making plans
(though
they be but daydreams)
and
caring about each other, even apart;
let
fiction against fact conspire
to
distract us and a storm break, together
we’ll
weather whatever challenges
the dark
side of nature may throw down
or a
gossipy neighbour just across the street,
curtains (forever)
unsubtly twitching
No
friendship is surer than upon itself
freely
feeding or love as enduring,
no matter
that some seize any opportunity
to redefine,
malign its intimacy ...
Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014
[Note: An
earlier version of this poem appears in first editions of Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]
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