When a bead of rain
within the outstretched palm of a fragile flower
becomes infused with light,
it is a butterfly being plucked away by the wind.
As it begins its climb, you observe its significance,
like a ray in the sky beaming directly
towards that sublime height.
Like a ring in the eclipse,
you’re transfixed on the other side
needing certain eyes to perceive
what it briefly reveals of shadow.
The ocean, like a vast blanket of patience,
receives our red petals of remembrance,
grasping for words, let loose and
inching forwards with radiant acceptance
in the swirling chaos of everyone’s remorse.
As you push towards the void that peers
through a transparent film of tears,
you can see within
all of the sorrow and reverberation.
This raw material evaporates
like a mist from a wave that hits you head on,
like a train from out of nowhere
pulling you from the comfort of your own
and into the sudden intrusion
of unkempt and uncontrolled emotion.
Grasping for empathy in the recesses the past processes.
Red flame, like a blade that cuts through regret
at what you could not change,
seared into an embrace of impermanence,
slow dance between the living and what is pending.
Witness the last breath,
like the receding of the ocean’s edge,
that uneven line of lengthening tide pulled tight,
until the pale face of the horizon’s sky
settles into the grey of night.
A peaceful process, this loss of light
in the turbulent spaces of holding on.
The beeping of machines
shifts to swarths of green beneath majestic peaks,
prompting a transformation in those of us there to witness
the simplicity of workers turning dirt,
different machines now laying him in the earth,
a reunion of sorts
beginning with white cranes
who come to usher his spirit away.
In Memory of Ka Yick Yu
7/25/40- 12/2/17
yakskinpocketnotes 