Where is January and the birth of a new year? I scrambled to keep up with the continuous unfolding of events: childhoods’ end, rites of passage, cataclysmic change, and looked up to notice it is August. The year now worn with months of days fully lived, wanes into Fall. I fall into tears of joy and anguish as I prepare to let go, to release my child into the world. Never mind the words of Khalil Gibran, “your children are not your children.” Even so, they move through our lives with such epic force as to bring us humbly to our knees and change us forever. Our hearts remain tethered no matter how far afield they go, the bond intact, unyielding.

Alone I turn inward to that familiar still and unmoving place, the one untouched by outward concerns, pregnant with infinite possibilities. A child moves on and art remains. Home.

Waiting, watching, still
my child is going away
Summer is ending

tonight i will dance
an ancient tale of spirit
to warm winter’s chill
with flash of silver gliding
through dark, smoky rooms
funky drum beats lead the way

Let freedom ring!
child of liberty,
the bell tolls for thee,
whose way to eternity is paved with lead.

No fallen soldier or hero in battle
would make you thus,
an emblem of sorrow,
or price of victory.

While cries of battle drown the
anguished mourning
of your flight–
carried small, heavy,
on shoulders worn with grief–
your voices linger in song and playful chatter.

Whose arms are these,
cold, unyielding,
which bear you into earth?
No mothers’ soft caress,
or fathers’ tight embrace,
to ease the way
this silent night.

Let Freedom Ring!
with metal, steel and lead;
Let freedom ring!
in fervent town hall clamour;
Let Freedom Ring!
Through the dreaded quiet
of empty classrooms.

Nothing is finished
liminal space between worlds
waiting, watching, still