The Stories That Weave the World
by Kayleen Asbo
Poised between pilgrim journeys
I listen to the sound of the wind.
Echoes of the past whisper in my ear that
History is not a memory, fading year by year from view
But a chalice in which to collect the laughter and tears of the ages.
If you stare slantwise into the fading summer light,
You can see the shadows of the ancestors
Weaving their hopes with our dwindling days.
In the liminal space of cathedral and cave,
There is no distinction between past and present,
then and now.
In the early morning hours of Italy,
the footsteps of Dante and Francis are still wet with dew
The vapor of Mary Magdalene’s sighs still rises
each mist kissed morn in Provence
And the stone in the garden is still warm where Rodin's caresses tried
to lure his muse back into his life.
Do not make the mistake of thinking each one a forgotten song.
Their memories still murmur and moan, and as Rossetti knew,
leap like fire across the centuries
To disturb and delight,
And awaken the flame of inspiration from grief's iron coffin
Just when the world around you
Seems to be unraveling,
These might be stories that can bind you together again,
Let them .become threads in the loom of your own life,
And set your imagination ablaze.
I declare that my life is not solely my own