The Life Cycle

Grandma had wisdom to impart,
but not everyone made time to listen.
She lived downstairs in her daughter’s home.
As she lay in her bed at night,
she listened for the beating of her heart.
Melodies stole their way to her
and rhythms beat a path.
The beats beneath her ribs were less vigorous than before.
But their rhythm was as regular as the rhythm of an old dance
handed down from generations past.
The stars danced in the sky
and the leaves danced in the trees.
The music of their dancing wafted through grandma’s window
and trickled back into her heart.
It was a song as smooth and serene as a mother’s voice
singing as she rocks her child to sleep.
Upstairs, her daughter did just that.
She could hear her sweet voice singing a lilting lullaby
as she rocked her granddaughter to sleep.
Just as she had done for her a generation ago.
Just as her mother had done for her two generations ago
and her mother had done before that.
A ritual as old as the wind.
So she drifted off to sleep.
Windows opened and the soul was freed.
Empty spaces were filled with music.
And as this happened,
a new baby sang her first song.
Wisdom to be gained.
Her small heart beat beneath her ribs.
As vigorous as those before her.
Beating a rhythm as regular as an old dance,
handed down from generations past.

The life cycle renewed.

-Christine Paris 

Original art work by Christine Paris

Original art work by Christine Paris


PoetryJulia NusbaumComment