How does she begin to feel lighter again?
In this age of heaviness,
Everything weighing her down,
Try to hide the decay,
With excessive makeup.
Trim the fat.
But her eyelids still shut
from afternoon pains,
And the heartaches
still weighs the same.
A sweet girl of seven.
Unaware, that all her life will be to crave forth what seems lovable and gratifying.
That maturity ceases the climbing of trees and chasing of cats.
To the ascending of worldly success and the approval of at least one man’s glowing eyes.
And at the age of seventy
what reflections will she see?
Sacks of hefty flesh…
Enlarged pores to pour out life’s toxic gunk of addictions?
A memory like a swiss cheese parade?
Or the censored truths?
That the second we are born the body is slipping away.
Just a house for our souls to seek warmth,
To accumulate energies from karmic delays.
What about the here and now?
That carefree is not only a state of mind for a seven year old,
But also for this woman of thirty-four. Until her mental branches
begin to grow into a ruckus,
And she must trim it all back again.
Will she smile with thankfulness at everything that has accumulated
And seize the truth?
That acceptance of impermanence
is a state of grace.
Poem/Photo: Naomi Ruth Art: Ivan Albright