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Location: Montgomery Area, Alabama, United States

Former BUFF driver; self-styled military historian; paid (a lot) to write about beating plowshares into swords; NOT Foamy the Squirrel, contrary to all appearances. Wesleyan Jihadi Name: Sibling Railgun of Reasoned Discourse

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Friend of the Sky

Saturday was the first anniversary of my mother's passing. On the first of this month, she would have been 75. I know of no better tribute than the words a very young poet of my acquaintance, Emily Hunerwadel (eleven at the time), penned to honor her--the first to express what my mother made her think of, the second to describe her final flight from pain and sickness--and express her lifelong connection to other "friends of the sky."

My Garden

New leaves come and new leaves go
Like trees in the wind swaying to and fro
Drop a stone into the well
And here my garden will always dwell
My temple’s here, my sacred place
Leaving it I’ll never face
So come into my garden here
And see the flowers I hold dear

Friend of the Sky

Free from everyone, everything except the above
Free from the ground and all her heartbroken love
She was free to the sky, her arms stretched in flight
The way the wind blew her hair back felt just right

Her heart filled with joy as she soared through the clouds
The earth was much different: unqueit and loud
She soared through the air all day and night
Getting stronger each day as her heart filled with delight

She was free to herself, to do as she would decide
She was happy with what she chose, like a child on a ride
Her joy will live forever, it will never end
For this was her life task and the sky was her friend

I know she flew from the pain and hardship she knew in her life, from the weakness and discomfort she knew in her last few years, to a joy we here can glimpse only through a glass darkly--but her, I hope, face to face.


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