At the end of the day, even the good days,
we can feel as if we’ve lived
a life.
The strength of morning,
the grace given for the moments
opening upon themselves.
The sweet forgiveness of yesterday’s assaults,
the love that renews
as dew upon the grass.
The updraft that buoys us
as we extend in movement,
find our stride.
The riding of the crest of midday,
the focus on the many tasks
that make success of the ordinary.
The passage of the sun and rain,
the birds and trees, the fields,
the rivers.
Each teaching of beginning,
of flowering, flowing, enduring,
of subsiding.
The slowing down of afternoon,
stretching,
releasing of a day built up.
The coming together again,
the whirring thoughts descending
or gaining momentum.
The processing and the
unravelling, the making little
piles for reflection,
for storing
or for burying,
or for nocturnal dreaming.
And then the unfolding of
the night under starlight,
in quiet companionship
or in solitary action,
tired, tense conversation,
the need for rest.
Or sometimes, like a burst of
blessing, the celebration
of a love remade.
But mostly a readiness
for the great undoing of the night,
everything now old, needing replacement.
Though we might whisper
thank you
as we drift into sleep.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
September 2021
Living Tree Poetry 