Fragility

It was a mistake to come to the writing cave today
I sit by the fire, a cup of tea in hand
Steam drifts above my pursed lips
Curling as I breathe out, and breathe in

My thoughts are not where they should be
Far away from this stack of paper in my lap
Editing notes in the margins
Inky arrows, slashes, circles and numbers

Creating clarity on the page
When I have no clarity of thought

Yesterday morning at this time
The hillsides and trees shrouded by fog
Mist formed droplets of lazy rain
A bag of seed hung from my arm

Spreading seed is a restorative act
For the land and the soul
Holding my hand above burnt soil
Seeds softly filter by slight of hand

Falling to the ground, they lie in slumber
The snow blankets their bed of soil
Spring sun awakens the seed
Grasses take root, the land restored

Not far from where I meditate with seeds
A nightmare unfolded just months ago
Three firefighters lost their lives, a fourth his youth
Unlike the land, life is too fragile to restore

The phone rings. Her voice is resigned.
Mammogram. Biopsy. Mastectomy. Treatment.
She needs her friends near to plant seeds of hope
To restore some zen, love, and support

In the evening I sit at the right hand of another friend
Strains of classical guitar fill the air
Her face is flushed with anticipation
She is on a date with the handsome man to her left

A wire extends from the curve of her breast
To a recording device clipped to her hip
Her irregular heartbeats under scrutiny
Not by her date, but by a team of doctors

Onstage, the guitarist furrows his brow
Eyes closed, lips pursed in concentration
Fingers dance across the wires
Delicate notes interplay with complex melodies

Life is fragile.
Hope and joy can be restored.