A year ago thanks giving was easy,
the pulse of new life strong in my body.
My sense of connection to divine mystery
more tangible by the day.
The November moon seemed to mirror my fullness.
I felt my glow reflected back, silver and shimmering.
It was warm. I couldn’t remember ever seeing butterflies
so late in the season,
their every wingbeat
perfectly timed with my soaring heart.
A year later that same November moon
mocks me in her radiance and I gaze on her
voluptuous form with envy and sorrow.
My own body deflated and hollow now,
quiet as a tomb.
It is warm still and the butterflies have returned.
They flutter and circle where I sit in the courtyard sun.
I long for them to slow and land on my open palm and stay,
spreading their dazzling wings to the sky.
I watch them in their ceaseless dance and I am thankful still
for their beauty and their grace,
even knowing that they are too delicate
and their time here too short
to stay with me.
about the piece.
Last year, Thanksgiving was the day we told everyone that we were pregnant. We had just passed the "magical" 3 month mark and were so excited to be in the "safe zone". It's one of the happiest days I can remember. This year I may decide to fast and stay under the covers. There is so very much I am grateful for- but sometimes I have a hard time experiencing it over the roar of my grief. -Ceil
about the artist.
Ceil is among other things, a writer who seldom writes and now a mother who doesn't get to mother. She is riding the waves after the loss of her son Kai on his due date, in mid June.
Wishing you all a peaceful day and a gentle Thanksgiving. I, for one, am grateful for all the amazing work shared in this space. Love to all of you. -Angie