hymn of wonder and grief
a close friend
is struck by a
brain-stem
stroke—a
fir half-broken
still stretching
toward light
her daughters
have traveled to
be by her bed
it’s bad, they said
will she live?
can she write?
change is the given
I know this and yet
the echo in my chest
is a hymn of both
wonder and grief
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
Yesterday, I drove my adult son to the University of California San Francisco to a movement disorder clinic for people who suffer from a variety of ailments such as stroke, Parkinson’s, or cerebral palsy. Doctors took notes on his long history, performed non-invasive tests and movement videotaping, discussed medications–all with the goal of understanding his body so they can help reduce his chronic, and often severe, pain.
The mind wanted to describe parts of the day as tedious, but what I noticed was how each moment was both unremarkable and precious–here in its fullness, and then gone. Utterly gone. Each eternal moment unfolded in a unique way with no preferencing an outcome. This mind had preferences, of course–that’s what minds do. But life itself has no predilections. Simply this, and this, and this.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2013
photo credit: Jeffery Foltice
the heart of the matter 