Myths of the Jungle
A decade and more here, and the list of losses grows.
Nothing changes? Don’t believe it.
Barns collapse. People die. Hearts break.
Journeys are made. Some never return. Some do,
but changed beyond recognition.
Even you. Even you are a product of loss.
Tendons rupture. Eyes become blind.
Parts and pieces are remade or discarded.
Somehow the machine still works, and you wonder
how many parts you can remove, and still function,
how much loss a heart can take and still rejoice.
So you suffer your melancholy and strike up the music.
There is dancing do be done, new drumbeats to fire the blood.
The jungle always wins, they say.
But not yet, you whisper. Not yet.
About this poem.
One of my favorite parts of Disney is a recreation of the jungles of SE Asia. It is steamy, and they capture the mood of fighting back the jungle and abandoned temples, always struggling against the elements. It is far more realistic than any part of the amusement parks. I could spend entire days there. (that is where this picture was taken).
I am melancholy this morning. I miss my mom, who died just a few years ago. I miss others who have died in the past few years. I miss the younger me, not the physical part but the me untainted with depression, bright and cheerful without having to work at it.
I’ll push past the melancholy. I always do. It’s work, but work worth doing. I love my life, but it’s work. Cue the African drums.