Two poems of late life, of endings, final steps or none, walking this ground "of which dead men/and women I have loved/are part, as they/are part of me." Life is a host of marriages and partings and awful grace beyond chance. A braided dance. Now and again this common ground where you and I, you inexplicably before I — how could that be? — Death is neither friend nor enemy. You stretch out, not unmoved but unmoving as sandstone. What do you feel? A luminous point of change? There is no sky pulsing against your small horizon, nor was there for my mother. Like and unlike someone of this slouching age, do you talk with your machine that offers some distant kin to life? I want to believe there is marriage in this place, still love's braided dance. Memories live. If I bend down perhaps I shall hear and say "touch me." You do not stand again under your last hill, you do not breathe. But perhaps in your time out of mind you have unburdened yourself and, light as you are, you may begin another journey without regret, your own unpeaceable kingdom, your end of endings, "in life's divine, obliterating love."
In a mist of light
falling with the rain
I walk this ground
of which dead men
and women I have loved
are part, as they
are part of me. In earth,
in blood, in mind,
the dead and living
into each other pass,
as the living pass
in and out of loves
as stepping to a song.
The way I go is
marriage to this place,
grace beyond chance,
love's braided dance
covering the world.
~ Wendell Berry ~
You take a final step and, look, suddenly
You're there. You've arrived
At the one place all your drudgery was aimed for:
This common ground
Where you stretch out, pressing your cheek to sandstone.
What did you want
To be? You'll remember soon. You feel like tinder
Under a burning glass,
A luminous point of change. The sky is pulsing
Against the cracked horizon,
Holding it firm till the arrival of stars
In time with your heartbeats.
Like wind etching rock, you've made a lasting impression
On the self you were
By having come all this way through all this welter
Under your own power,
Though your traces on a map would make an unpromising
Meandering lifeline.
What have you learned so far? You'll find out later,
Telling it haltingly
Like a dream, that lost traveler's dream
Under the last hill
Where through the night you'll take your time out of mind
To unburden yourself
Of elements along elementary paths
By the break of morning.
You've earned this worn-down, hard, incredible sight
Called Here and Now.
Now, what you make of it means everything,
Means starting over:
The life in your hands is neither here nor there
But getting there,
So you're standing again and breathing, beginning another
Journey without regret
Forever, being your own unpeaceable kingdom,
The end of endings.
~ David Wagoner ~