When we made it to our 80’s, we said, let’s go for 90.
But that cancer he took home from his mill job,
those decades ago, finally got him.
I keep looking for him, you know?
From the kitchen I keep turning to the dining room table,
where he always sat reading or figuring or planning.
I go out to the garden and I hear him out in our forest,
with his wagon and winch.
And then in the shed making something or other.
He’s all over this place.
I got him to move the love seat over here,
to this side of the porch so we could sit
in the sun and watch the ocean.
Look at this! How did we collect so many binoculars?
Those wires and power poles used to bother me.
But if you look across the Juan de Fuca to the Olympic mountains,
the wires disappear, and everything becomes clear.
We liked watching the storms come in too,
even when it knocked out our power.
Of course Rod was good with generators and everything like that.
It gets so warm here we’d fall asleep.
I nodded off the other day, just a little, you how you do?
half awake, I reached out and held his hand—for real.
Yesterday, I went to his model train room
to look for him; but it was locked up and I couldn’t find the key.
I thought, well, that’s interesting.
You know I miss him so much.
He was the best husband.
He was the one that said I should start publishing my poems.
Before we go out to the little mound, near the burning pile,
we see an eagle land on the crown of a hemlock,
all grace, like an act of creation.
I put him here, between these three trees overlooking the garden;
two old Douglas fir, and this young one.
What do you think, is it a good place?
Do you think he likes it here?
I say I think he likes it here.
Burning pile –Wendy Morton
I carry the windsplit branches
of hemlock, balsam, fir;
their filigree of lichen, pitch.
Add blackberry vines and
the heirloom rose that no longer blooms.Later, I bring paper sunflowers,
full of dust and secrets, old
foolish journals, outdated receipts.It’s not the memories that will burn here;
but last year’s grief,
all smoke, then ash.
 |
This shadow image of Rod Punnett graces the cover of Wendy’s third book of poetry, Shadowcatcher, Ekstasis Editions, 2005. |
I cried reading this. I wish I could have been there with you and Wendy. I will miss Rod as well, the conversations, sitting and watching the ocean, walking up to the back pond and brook, hearing him talk of his latest exploits with the yard and his equipment… I’m glad you had this time.
Lovely, thanks Deb. Those memories stay precious.
In his book, The Creative Act: A Way of Being, Rick Rubin writes, “Living life as an artist is a practice. You’re either engaging in the practice or you’re not… We tend to think of the artist’s work as the output. The real work of the artist is a way of being in the world.”
Thank you, Stephen, for inviting us into this holy moment, to honour, to grieve. You helped me walk in her world today. The loss is visceral.
That’s wonderful quote. And a truly important touchstone. Thank you for this, Joyce.
Beautiful.
Look at this! How did we collect so many binoculars?
Thanks so much, Laurie.
What a lovely tribute, to him and to her.
Thank you, Ann.
Dear Wendy-our hearts go out to you. Sending you our love and prayers.
Flesh is mortal but words can be immortal, thank you for sharing these words so they can live on in the world
Thank you, Rene.
Thank you for this Stephen. Deeply felt and I can hear Wendy in all of it. Big hugs.
Thank you so much, Yvonne. And thank you for what you mean to Wendy.
This Stephen, turned out to be the loveliest visit
of wonder, and honour
of heart
and a true testament
to the power of love,
friendship
presence
and
memory.
Absolutely beautiful,
and necessary.
Thank you <3 -^-
Tamara, thank you, that makes me happy!