Author: Jenny Rose
I have lost these things:
plants which died
a step ladder
a set of fire tools
the capacity to walk or drive very far
clothes I used to love
things I wrote 25 years ago.
Somewhere, is there a forest of lost things? My step ladder standing like a strange tree, adorned with clothes – that silk dress, the cord jacket, the hoodie. Next to it, a thicket of pokers, shovel and bellows. In a hollow, shrivelled plants-that-were. There is a dell, where a mist of sleep floats hazily, and around it stand shadows of people who were once with me and now are not. Around their feet, a carpet not of leaves, but of scraps of paper, the writing on them (my writing) blurred by light, water and time. My health is scattered, some of it trodden mud by the path, some of it buried by squirrels, much of it slowly composting down. And curious flowers sprout around – their blossoms intricate filigree that, when I look closely, spells out the words I forget – names of people, places, objects and ordinary things.
Can I trust the forest to hold these things? Can I trust that I will be ok to go on without them – that, as I have managed without the fire tools, I will also manage without the words? That the loss of physical capacity has made space for new things to grow?
As much as has been lost, what has been found?
‘Lost things’ inspired by Kristen Roderick’s ‘The Power of Lost Things’ ritual, https://www.spiritmoving.org/blog1
This poem was originally posted in April 2022 by Jenny Rose on: Of Owls and Ancestors (wordpress.com)