The sun is hiding

After watching emergency crews pry a suicidial man from below Asian Minor subway engines after being struck by lightening, I walked through an old expansive cemetery. It was spring. Wild flowers, white headstones, names, dates, and memories rested below tall pines and thick evergreens.

A woman sat on a grave pulling weeds. Tending soil. Nearby, her friend, her sister, her mother, aunt and grandmother from Asian Steppes speaking Tamashek whispered to a child, "She is cleaning the spirit entry. She is drumming, remembering."

The child sang to the woman on the grave, "Auntie! Auntie!" but the woman didn't say anything. She played the soil like a drum. She was sad and remembering her son, father, husband, uncle and grandfather. Their love and kindness.

Her tears watered red, yellow and white roses. A thorn pushed a white haired woman in a wheelchair along a path inside a humid rain forest covering 6% of the planet.

Smoke from a fire created by bamboo and coconut leaves circled it's veins through a heart's four clamoring chambers. Smoke and love echoed from the Forest Floor to the Understory, rose to the Canopy and emerged through the Emergent.

This is where the Bird of Paradise, Eagles and Macaws live.

I walked on, passing chiseled stones wearing Arabic script.

Suddenly there was a quick explosion of metal on stone. An old man with a sledgehammer pounded a collection of memories around a grave. He paused, removed fragments and slammed his sledgehammer again.

The sun went into hiding. It rained. A woman played musical notes.

Metta.