We've come to think of families as the air:
As seasons flux and forge the months ahead,
The intervals in turn announce themselves
With lilacs, woodstoves, rustic needle-beds.
When newer seasons colorize the wind
Within the welcome offerings they share,
Our senses speak of solitude: the wind
Is just the wind—the air remains the air.
But Heraclitus knew the deeper truth:
That families mirror water, not the air
That lives are trickles joining up the streams;
Each history a watershed we share.
And when we reach the mouth beyond the river—
So still, becoming ready for the next—
Our legacy will seep into the open
Or else evaporate to gain its rest.
Apologies for the voice; the time for winter colds is well upon us. Well, me, anyway.
This poem I was able to share in no small part due to Paul Wittenberger, who recently shared his poem, “Heraclitus Said.” It inspired me to return to one of my own I drafted in 2019.
Share this post