Hard and Humbling is the Way

If he were in his twenties, thirties,
events and feelings
would have a different,
more relaxed face,
and no trace
of resentment would remain.

He is haunted.
Ten years of steady work
would have yielded
a savings
of a hundred thousand dollars by now,
his forties, his death-tickled forties,
would have had occasion
to sigh a sigh of relief,
at times be spared the tremblings
we see of an autumn leaf.

Were he a richer man,
generosity would simply be,,
no shadow of it, no mimicry
would intrude.
Enough money could mean
the free flow
of fine feelings…

But her meager pension.
Her meager pension
is drawing deeper, deeper
duty, strengthening duty
as duty’s shadow,
resentment,
grows…

Nasty, troubling thoughts,
unwelcome, unsolicited thoughts:
why should he pay
for the character defects –
laziness maybe, maybe pride –
that did not water
her pension, though she was qualified?

Ah, but love does not calculate,
love has no radar for flaws, it’s said.
But love cannot be forced as well,
and love for all she did, her maternal affection,
tender memories and love alone
do not draw the resources he’ll need
as he grows older, on his own.

The way
is humbling and hard,
its mirror showing
all that he wants to discard,
love mixed with less-
than-laudatory elements,
love that’s not naked
of calculation and thoughts of recompense,
love still swayed by the thought of sacrifice.
Unsparing is the way,
the way it reveals
the wheels
that bear along a frightened human being,
his seeing
still steeped in selfishness,
the way cruel-seeming in the way
it shows that even
love for a fine, nurturing mother,
like love of any other,
is still a child of circumstance…

Remember he does all her fine deeds,
the pianist too, her regal command
guided by some angel’s hand.
His poetic passion,
the creations of his own
can sometimes forestall
unwelcome visitors, one and all…

But as surely as winter comes
they come – rubbing, obstinate.
Oh how easy are secluded meditations,
how easy is it to bask in the glow
of airy insights,
the private delights
one feels in the course of nature walks,
one feels in a quiet room,
feeling he has the moon and sun
staring trance-like at one’s side,
feeling one is the source of love,
a child of expansive seeing.
Oh how hard it is to love
oneself facing
an imperfect, ailing human being.