Poetry, Life

Spilled Ink Against a Bloodied Sky

And yet the moon still rises

An owl flew in last night.

Spilled ink against a bloodied sky.

Horned shadows adorning the pine.

Harbinger of death? Or of the death of bereavement? Does it ever end?

It circles. Eats its tail. This cycle. Death. Bereavement. Hope.

Three tails. And I never know which one is going to rattle on any given day.

The owl flew in last night.

And I wondered which tail those razored talons would shred.

Death. Bereavement. Or hope.

Black wings against a bloody sky. And yet the moon still rises.

Death. Bereavement. Hope. The cycle of grief constantly shifts. My husband and I have been dealing with multiple losses this year. I think that we have mostly shifted back into hope mode. But I’m sure that all of you who have dealt with tragic loss (probably most everyone) have found yourself lapsing into moments of despair, followed by moments of remembering small happinesses.

I’m realizing more and more that those small moments which comprise our lives — those moments that you don’t even realize are important until they are gone — are to be cherished most of all. It’s the memory of folding the laundry with your cat; or of cresting a hill in Sedona with your lover right behind you on the trail; or of being breathless with laughter under a starlit sky — these are the things that matter, the moments which will remain with you until you draw your last breath on this gritty earth.

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

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Photos and story ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.