I will not raise an eyebrow or look away. “Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”

I will not raise an eyebrow or look away.                   
“Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”.                   
The tree grew up fast while I was still a child
and ready to go the extra mile.       
Geraniums for the graves of ghosts, 
and chipped glass for Memorial Day.             
Never I thought that away from the coast,                   
or from a hideaway beach or island repose              
I would not think twice again of the setting sun.             
                    
She was a Hewitt; the long familial New England line,          
but I did not know her; my paternal grandmother,                  
Strangled All Hallows' Eve, nineteen forty-nine.                    
Scorned released, All Hallows' Day,
nineteen sixty-four, for behavior benign.  
                 
I have seen her jade bracelet
and the ivory tusk in the cedar chest.        
– Memories of inheritance of a last whaling expedition ‘round the Southern Cone.                   
And I hear sometimes the echoes
and see the faded portraits in the roll-top desk.                    
– Sights of a last glance back ‘round Cabo de Horn.       
                        
Her son had no brothers or sisters.                   
An only child, fending for himself, his trap lines and dreams,          
which soon would turn to nightmares and silent screams -      
And silent dread.               
His only solace found in the rod and reel.  
                 
Toothy grin, his smile uncorrupted by death yet.                   
That’s how it is when one is only four or five.                    
But a daily bottle of gin; how long can that go on and stay alive,         
if only to calm his fears?                   
His eyes faded with time.                   
And at the end of his book he said                   
“I miss my cat” and “I would have liked a few more years”…       
                     
I saw a hand on the wall at night, got scared and was afright.          
An epiphany at age five, nineteen sixty-eight,                  
sitting on the floor at the front door that the earth is round and in space,                   
and collie Duchess was seen herding some cows toward the fenced border twilight.                   
Cutting; her head down with a glare. Lesson laid bare…        
                          
“Joy to the World” was sung in public school
 – no thought to the irreverent then,                   
even painting the wise men,                   
and a charcoal “What Star So Bright?” 
                  
I hid under the forsythia once again.                   
Rare thought to that coming of age time,                   
A peaceful discordia at age ten,                   
And solace in the solstice night.                   
                    
Turn another page!                   
Time goes by, years pass; decades even,
and we cannot go back.         
So I tend to thoughts of time spent                   
with dad flying kites in March,                   
or of spearing eels with a trident!                   
- Now that is a happy funny memory!                   
Though no photograph when I followed in his footsteps briefly,         
time only to remember memories mingled                      
when on the same tack we lingered.                   
                    
Today I came across a sad turtle while on a run.              
Looked as though he was making pains to cross the two lanes…        
And thoughts of “if only…if only...”                   
The Muscovy duck is mournfully lamenting the loss of a nest                   
A sad sight, I have seen in person at her beckoning behest.       
Though, when there are hatchlings in the morning dew,               
she celebrates best.                   
These are their struggles too.                   
                    
We all want to share or be alone in mystery and beatific vision.                   
But sometimes in the day-to-day back-and-forth, there is derision;       
With all the recent rapture of life,                   
let us not forget the meek, the sad. Let us pray. Let us recite.         
Let us contemplate. Let us write.                   
Let us continue the search!                   
And let us also remember our happy times and our “if only” celebration;                   
and our serene blissful elation.                   
                    
And so these essential words are at play;                            
these random recuerdos, these memoir moments hold sway;          
I feel affect affinity for the searcher,          
the seeker-of-truth, or for those who give up the faith,             
or go through a Saint John of the Cross “Dark Night”.              
I see and remember and have been told the story,                  
and well I have my own story to tell.                   
I will not raise an eyebrow or look away.                   
“Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”.