Comfort in Death

I found the pinnacle of the universe in a field

in central Minnesota.

Three fields meet

at a point, a deliberate gathering at the door of the pinnacle,

awaiting entrance.

I stand at this corner,

my thoughts adrift;

The past stands behind me:

A farm machine junkyard

rusting with history. If you look closely you can see

the vibrations of the past: work of the land,

freedom in wheat, and

musical leisure; Then,

a subtle crunch

of earth spreading lives, deep,

deep

Here is an intersection of knowledge.

Here, wisdom and history.

Here; a playground.

Arms spread before me, the

universal lessons

seep through

of love

of peace.

A hushed prayer:

What once was can never be, yet remains

an echo at the intersection between life and

death

Frozen in time is,

possibility; an end or,

a new beginning.

The pinnacle blurs inside my vision and the

backdrop

appears in stark relief. Fire

marches slowly onward,

like illness,

marking as new

a section of field tucked into a copse

of ancient, untouched trees and brambles.

Reaching for the sky, they

steady it,

the fractal pattern leaking through.

***

Brown bear sleeps.

An owl releases a cry and my focus shifts

to a ladder –

in the distance, leading up –

to a hunter’s blind. The owl swivels

his neck, watching me as I

watch him.

This is a shared moment.

This, an understanding.

This; a road

traveled. I smile, he

takes flight, then lands atop the wooden structure.

I know he watches over night,

as brown bear watches over

day. The sun

crests the horizon and

I blink.

Like a mind awakened with a glorious

radiance; a mother’s embrace; an

unexpected hero.

I held her hand one last time.

A sigh of breath; a comfort.

***

It is the middle of the night

and I wake.

The sound is hushed - yet urgent; filled,

with love.

I see the light go on.

The hide-a-bed couch creaks

as I rise. There is something

about

the light.

Another hushed whisper:

She can’t get out of bed

by herself

I settle on the edge of my parent’s bed, waiting

for her return; it is

for solidarity; for love.

He leads her back, he

stops, turning her;

Arms around her, they dance to

reminiscent music.

My heart stumbles. I am stunned but

it clicks,

Here is a moment in history bathed.

Here, white light.

Here; a promise.

I stand. Time

is frozen.

I feel grass shoots shift

in the wind.

At this intersection of history,

miracles happen:

The hero; the sacrifice

***

I sway at the door

to the universe.

Full night has come, yet the path

is illuminated.

One of the spirits on the path stops

my mom on her way in then

whispers: Help her back, bring her forward

Back at the beginning,

not a curse but

a blessing.

I weep. A soft breeze recalls

a child lulled to sleep; the sound of my brother’s breathing.

You really must see the,

Walk of Heroes,

at an intersection,

in a field,

in northern Minnesota.

A place and time for solitude. A doorstep

for my cluttered mind, where,

out spills a heaviness, yet

a lightness.