In 1922, novelist Marcel Proust answered this question:

"If this prediction were confirmed [the world will end and that death will be the certain fate of hundreds of millions of people], what do you think would be its effects on people between the time when they acquired the aforementioned certainty and the moment of cataclysm? Finally, as far as you’re concerned, what would you do in this last hour?"

In this way:

"I think that life would suddenly seem wonderful to us if we were threatened to die as you say. Just think of how many projects, travels, love affairs, studies it – our life – hides from us, made invisible by our laziness which, certain of a future, delays them incessantly.

But let all this threaten to become impossible forever, how beautiful it would become again! Ah! If only the cataclysm doesn’t happen this time, we won’t miss visiting the new galleries of the Louvre, throwing ourselves at the feet of Miss X, making a trip to India.

The cataclysm doesn’t happen, we don’t do any of it, because we find ourselves back in the heart of normal life, where negligence deadens desire. And yet we shouldn’t have needed the cataclysm to love life today. It would have been enough to think that we are humans, and that death may come this evening."

To further emphasize the immaculateness of his answer, let  Alan Rickman read it to you…

So. Are you living today as if it were your last day?

I've so enjoyed the experience of writing poetry over the last five weeks; it's hard to believe the month of April has gone already! This week brought so many experiences and changes to our lives - overwhelming at times, and yet, I still found the time to sit and write; I think that says something good about poetry. Having not written poetry before, I found it challenging and frustrating, and yet - satisfying in its simplicity, and so I hope to continue - even without the gentle push of a weekly goal. Thank you Lauren for hosting, and thank you - anyone - for reading along.

This week's poetry theme was Enjoy. As there is nothing I so enjoy as time outdoors with my children, it seemed only natural that experience would inspire my final week's poem.

Gardening  

Afternoon Spring sun warms our shoulders as we crouch, hunched over our hardened-off sprouts.

Searching for the heartiest amidst curved shoots, wilted leaves; small fingers examining each stem, you are engrossed.

A swallow - darting,  just inches from the sun-warmed top of your head; you are undeterred.

This one looks strong.

And I agree. I haven't taught you this; selection is innate.

Each one you gently separate, place, settle down into fertile soil.

Dirt in your hair, fingernails, in the scrapes on your knees.

And wonder in your eyes - perhaps imagining a future filled with fruit and vegetables.    

Until - suddenly - concern crosses your countenance, interrupting your calm:  

The water is knocking him over.

It's okay, I say, Time will make him stronger.

You nod, returning to your work.

The swallow darts again, and we smile.

There were many inspiring prompts this week, but life got in the way of writing a bit, as life is wont to do. I felt the strongest spark from "Why: What big questions from your children have you been terrified and privileged to answer?" as I find so many of the questions my children ask to be formidable to answer - less in the mechanics of answering and more so in the self-examination they command. And so, this week's Parenting Poetry Workshop entry:

Teaching

Knowing more than we see

You sense before you have words to tell us

Feelings

Intentions

I struggle to define death yet you already understand

In the young speech you have, explaining more than I've described

I am humbled, struck  by your awareness

Otherworldly

Makes me wonder how much I am teaching you

When really - should you be teaching me?

This week's poetry theme was Hope. As in: what you hope for as your child grows; what you hope for yourself as a parent. I found this week particularly challenging; though… I'm not certain whether it stemmed more from the theme or from the newness of the poetry medium. It's a struggle to go from, say, the gentle stream of writing dialog, to the push-pull abruptness of poetry. Poems seem to come tearing out; then screech to a sudden stop; whereas writing is more of a tidal flow. An oil painting vs. a charcoal gesture sketch. Facebook vs. Twitter. Oh, I didn't just make that comparison. Strike that. I hope in spite of poor analogies, I hope you still enjoy. ;)

This poem was written as part of Lauren Wayne's Weekly Parenting Poetry Workshop for the month of April.
My entry from last week. And the week before.
Please join in!

Hope

What I hope for you:

Freedom

Space to breathe, create - yourself

Unbound by guilt, expectations

Defined Only

By your own crafted moments and experiences

Confidence

And for myself also:

Freedom

From the rough edges of my own childhood

Release from regret and

Fears of mistakes not yet realized

Fortitude

This month, I'm taking part in Lauren Wayne's Weekly Parenting Poetry Workshop. This week's writing prompt was "prepare". Now, the intention of this prompt was the preparation that goes into becoming a parent - fertility, pregnancy, anticipation. But, as I've been years out from the, ahem, expectation of pregnancy, when I first read "prepare", I immediately pictured the preparation involved in getting kids ready to go outside, not pregnancy. So, for my first poem I just followed along where my mind lead; my apologies to Lauren for mostly ignoring her promt. :)

Boots

Peering out of the foggy window, I see clouds overhead: grey, stringy, a mess of wet and dark. Chilly.

Droplets stuck grimly to the windows.

And you --- want to go outside. PUDDLES!  

My shirt, a smeary hand printed mess, and my hair: one tangled dollop. But, a hat should do.

Let's GO Mom!

You jump, run fiercely from window to window.

And your face: joy. The prospect of splashing in puddles shines from every part of you.

Time for boots!

I pull on my boots as you dance - your energy, always moving; lighting up the room.

IT'S RAINING IT'S POURING…

Please put on your boots.

Dancing, leaping, as if water is already hitting your shins; cold, gravelly.

When it rains, we need boots on.

You're at the door, with stocking feet: shifting, hopping, WAITING.

Boots!!

Frustration, consternation, concentration, you can do it yourself.

I can DO IT MYSELF!

Left-foot righted, and you're out the door before I can mention it.

Where's my umbrella? It doesn't matter.

Laughing, giddy. The world, damp, drab. But for you… amazing.