The Heaviness Of Feeling Poem by Diana van den Berg

It’s hard with no footstep on the verandah,
and no greeting in the hall.

It’s hard flying solo
on my elation
at a butterfly on a leaf,
the splash of crimson-winged lourie visitors,
thrushes on forest floor,
the birth of a yellowwood,
single notes of musical perfection,
sunsets languishing through my trees
and poems painted on my mind.

It was hard bringing up my children on my own
and teaching them all I knew and then some,
so that they could fly as high and as bravely as they do.

It’s so very, very hard being without them.
It’s hard missing my horse for three and a half years now
after twenty and a half years of mutual adoration.

It’s hard with nobody to share
my tears for exploited indigents,
abused or missing children
and the anguish of other’s mother cats and their kittens
when separation comes to pass.

It’s hard getting an ex-boyfriend
to fix the plumbing
when I haven’t sold any houses in a while
and can’t afford a real plumber.

It’s hard choking on
this boundless love
that nobody wants.
It’s hard reminiscing
about loves that flew high for a while... oh, so hard,
and yes, André,
Joe and I really did talk about trees...
amongst other things...
all those years ago.

It’s hard looking at footprints that I thought would stay,
leaving my forest again...
and again...
and again,...

but
hey!
life is hard for everyone,
in one way or another,
and I am luckier than anyone I know,
for I have my elation
as fresh and eager as when I was new -
and my freedom,
through these long, long, almost solitary years,
is sweet,
so very, very sweet...
I savour it,
like my sundowner liqueur glass
of Cape Velvet,
slow on the mind.

My thoughts and dreams soar skywards,
unaborted now,
and flow into slow memories,
vivid and precious.
I don’t and won’t live scared
behind closed doors.
I can turn lights on or off at will
n my house and in my heart.

I don’t have to cook
or answer to anyone.

Nobody argues with me
and I am free to laugh and cry
and call my filing cabinet, Fiona,
my laptop, Lilian,
my post box, Penny,
and for the joke, my palisade fencing, Paul,
and I can hold long conversations
with my cat and my dog
and my late horse
without anyone complaining
- and they love me, all three,
unconditionally,
as I do them.

People would do well to appreciate what they have
and know that no one else’s life is perfect.

I adore my freedom and my elation and my sorrow,
and I sing them,
celebrate them
or sob them,
every moment,
with the passion
I have
for everyone and everything I hold dear.