Aging is freeing for a writer, a last gasp of so many why nots? I’ve mentioned wanting to write poetry but not having a poet’s heart, which I don’t, but why not a few lines of verse, from time to time?
And because it is not real poetry but an exercise, I use a quotation, one often attributed to Mark Twain (as are too many memes), a compilation of different quotations from the 1970s on forgiveness:
“The fragrance the
violet sheds on the heel
that has crushed it”–
the who, the what, the shot
Each one undone.
Frankly, it’s better than any opening line I can come up with in poem or prose. Age is mellowing so I admit to having been both heel and violet. Only I know the score of that card but ultimately, it doesn’t matter: forgiveness is forever or it is not at all.
Forgiving and being forgiven–
an aroma in arms
unconditional–or the deal is off.
How long forgiveness?
For the violet, forever falls short.
For the forgiven, a bridge a bit far.
My poem explains too much and not enough–it’s misshapen–too long (with this stanza a line short), round and soft but blunt. There are no conditions in forgiveness for it is given freely, if it is given at all. It’s a choice.
The violet’s last gasp
Frees a future for life.
It is unforgotten, the act. Forgiveness freezes the past for life, not quickly (mind you) and only in awareness, a search for every emotion caught in a corner dark. There are no excuses. Just light, where all is exposed. All.
It is not easy living in that light, just freeing. And nobody said forgiveness didn’t ask everything of us. Nobody.
(Note: The image is a spiderwort.)