If life energy came like great cosmic tides, mine is reaching its lowest ebb.
Little salt-water puddles on hard, wave-carved sand,
pocked here and there by sharp rocks,
are all that’s left behind by my fast-retreating spiritual waters.
Waves, once loud and fierce, break only in the distance,
as if on the other shore.
Still, small archetypal specters of life remain in
tide pools, clear, sparkling and lovely, but quiet,
appearing as tiny scurrying sea creatures and ponderous starfish,
mere curiosities to one used to riding the tsunamis of ambition.
Will my energy tide ever return?
Perhaps in limited fits and starts, but never fulsome, never enduring.
And how does a waning grandfather serve his brood as
they chase the action and thrills of embodiment?
My sand castle, washed away years ago,
now reposes in the heart’s ineffable memories, irrelevant to them.
I now offer only simple presence –
quiet, gentle, loving.
It’s what my grandmother gave me as a boy
sitting on the sunny patio
telling me about fairies.