Tilting Warrior

no      not Don Quixote       no swathing at windmills

just a man battling all his life     for feelings     he could not feel

he was     at times     a drowning man

fighting for one more clean breath

but he was a poet     a singer     a painter

a kind neighbor      lover     brother     son

we must remember that     like memories

of a flower a dry pod used to be

pointillism pressed against our hearts

he was laughter     love of walking in woods

children brought the child out in him

we loved in hopes to cure    not fair for him

he healed himself every day

how he loved     when he loved

no matter what his love might be     in the moment

I     needing to be needed     chose whatever it became

until I realized I was doing my Quixote no favor     either

turning loose of all I loved of it     for my own peace

and I sent hope and wishes and beliefs into smoke

that wound      surely    towards a greater healer

for us    and     yet  sometimes     when I hear the drums

my heart beats to them     and I remember what warriors

we both were    what ways we were both tilting

how my own decision lead us to new grounds

tonight     the woman who wept in your rain

stands in open moonlight     beneath Grandmother Moon

unloosens braided sweetgrass  and lights a flame

to take hold and draw my newer prayers towards Sacred Ground

and bless his many favors     his service for others     his deepest desires

were honorable as any warriors'     I     one last time

bless him with peace amidst this slow breath of dying

that moves dry buffalo grasses       circles his sky

turns this hard land into Spring     and begins to cycle

a brand new grace      he desperately wanted

©Carol Desjarlais 4.12.19