Meditation On The Wind
In the trees, cool breezes sing,
Directing leaves with steady gusts
And urging forth pure harmony
From swaying, fully laden limbs.
No sweeter sound could ride the wind
Than gently rustling woodland brush;
I drink the soothing music
Playing lightly on the wind,
And instantly I feel refreshed,
For whispering leaves wipe cares away
And liberate imprisoned minds.
Lauren Isaacson
September 16, 1985
Sept. 29, 1985… I have been so swollen lately. My middle hurts when I lay too long; getting up helps. I have the runs; couldn't go to Dubuque for Mom's Sept. birthday; couldn't go to Margaret's to celebrate her mother's birthday. I finally spent 2 hours of the afternoon just sleeping. I finished a poem I was writing about Norm. It follows…
Eternal Bond
Captured on a dismal morn
When winter's cloak
Concealed the sun,
My brother journeyed
From the earth,
Perhaps to grasp another time,
Or rest beneath the heaven's stars.
Perfect sorrow filtered deep
Within my mournful soul;
With sightless eyes
I scanned my mind,
Rendering memories whole. . .
And images, like broken shards,
I struggled to restore
Lest any trait be left behind
And thus, in death, forever die.
Crippling grief and grim despair
Withdrew its shadow from my heart,
For in myself, his life went on;
The steadfast and eternal bond
Which formed in life
Failed not in death.
We laughed, we smiled,
We understood,
And though I now must walk alone,
To loneliness I'll not succumb.
Lauren Isaacson
September 29, 1985
Oct. 17, 1985… It's great this time of year, although melancholic. I sat outside most of the day. Then, as I watched this "mite" of a squirrel, he struggled furiously to retain his grasp on a branch. He frantically succeeded in attaining a safer location; he was noticeably upset. It inspired a poem. I wrote one the day before; I'm not overly thrilled about it, but that's life.
Autumnal Essence
Splendor, bold and riotous,
Bespeaks the grand autumnal mood.
Blackbirds cackle unrestrained
Among the trembling golden wood
While agitated squirrels bury nutmeats
'Neath the fragrant turf.
Fruit trees, heavy-laden, bend
Their branches toward the earth,
Spilling wealth from fertile lands
Into eager, out-stretched hands.