Hello dear Feelers, happy Thursday. I found myself in a dark night of the soul this past week, battling existential crises and other various demons. They are the kind of dark nights we all encounter in some form or fashion, and like all things, their pain brings a kind of clarity no matter how minuscule. When it felt almost too heavy to bear yesterday morning, I forced myself through breakfast and to work: just get through today. In many ways my small prayer for comfort was answered: the day stayed stormy and cool, punctuated by light misting rains; work was slow and uneventful; and I went straight into nature after work was done. Sometimes once is all it takes; sometimes repeat trips into the quiet and green are necessary. My walk in the rain (hmmm… sounds like a poem I wrote once!) coaxed me out of the sadness because there are just so many blooming and growing and changing things to note, so many processes; there are darting cardinals and bossy geese, laden spiderwebs and quiet egrets. Raindrops pool on grass blades and tiny finches bathe. Snakes swim. The wind blows cool— the kind of wind that reminds you that you are an animal, that passes through your body with a powerful sweetness. I’m feeling much better today. It seems fitting and serendipitous, as poems are wont to be, that I had started a piece about two dead opossums— about tiny deaths. If you’ve read my written work or viewed my drawings and sculptures, you may notice there is a bit of darkness in them; it is a feature of who I am as an artist and person, not a bug. I wasn’t pumped to read Anne Rice novels at thirteen years old for nothing! I am a feeler, friends, and so are you; why else would you be here? I think it’s well and fine to write about the so-called positive emotions, but this shared life is not one note, and I personally don’t find writing like that terribly interesting. Why do we consume any art form if not for the drama? For the story? For the arc of the hero or villain? For a looking glass into the void, into the stickiness we all track onto the carpet? When I draw, I am literally bringing forth that which is light and letting go of that which the darkness consumes. One would not exist without the other; both are required. It’s not so different from when I write. So, it’s a little poem about little deaths. A little darkness. But a poem, my friends, is a candle. Enjoy. Xo, HW.
Tiny Deaths
Two dead opossums
In just as many days—
One frozen like bad taxidermy on the highway,
looking like a thing discarded as I passed;
The other gentler,
curled like a comma
just off trail by the river.
Given that I could,
For the latter I stood
for a moment, the least I could do
was bear witness to
a tiny life, a tiny death:
the mouth aglitter with iridescent flies
like a writhing geode,
The eyes blackening in the heat,
The maggots churning,
I strained my ears
to hear below the dirt,
Listening for the many armed mycelium
for their dutiful hands, their selves of plenty—
stretching up from underneath
To begin the careful work of turning death back to the soil,
O holy custodians, their gospel just out of earshot
and somehow deafening:
Because we end,
We can begin.
So beautiful. I love your writing so much. Thank you for sharing this.
Always good to be reminded of the cyclical nature of this life we live. Beautiful writing…💜