To the Skeptic
Poems From The Porch
photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash.com
The duck pair flew from one oak to the other,
making their presence known this morning.
Up the longest limb scampers a squirrel.
The Gerbera daisies are smiling radiantly as they wait to be potted on the porch.
Cooing, twittering, and enthusiastic singing infuse the air,
while the sun is playing hide and seek with the clouds.
The crustacean underground dwellers have been active overnight,
as evidenced by their magnificently displayed mud palaces.
An ordinary extraordinary day.
Thirty-two years ago, around this time of morning,
my dad’s soul left his body to inhabit unseen realms.
Breaths separated by minutes,
“I know you can see me. I know you can hear me. I love you, and it’s okay to go,”
my silent mantra as I held his hand.
Opposite me sat his beloved wife, my mother, also holding his hand,
while loving family stood quietly weeping as they surrounded his bed.
Where are you now, daddy?
Looking up, I see the wisteria finally starting to bud,
sweet, little, yellow beginnings signaling new life.
Now the red cardinal appears as a sharp contrast
with the sparse crepe myrtle in the field.
Death and life are illusory concepts in the spectrum of consciousness.
Love never ends.
Don’t judge me and think your rationality is superior to my magical thinking
because I know that the cardinal is a sign from my dad,
making his presence known.
You see, I know that in your most hopeful heart,
you believe in magic, too.
You just won’t admit it, even to yourself.