Poems by Laura Loescher
REVERENCE FOR THE DESCENT
My friend has a Masters Degree
in Rites of Passage
Did you even know there was
such a thing?
She tells me
she has great reverence
for the Descent
That fall into darkness
that is part
of any true passage
We have finally
tumbled
over the threshold
she says,
into a free fall
and it is long overdue
This feels true to me
I’m both surprised
it has taken so long
and amazed
that it caught me
by surprise
I will listen,
a student of her wisdom
and the ancient knowledge
of her ancestors
of my ancestors
and all of our ancestors
She reminds me
that the caterpillar
doesn’t turn into
the butterfly
until after its body
dissolves into
something
unrecognizable
in the in-between
We’re not there yet
It’s more like
we’re at the stage
where, having gorged
on everything in sight,
we are bloated
and unwell
Some of us are laying
in the hammock
oblivious to the cocoon
beginning to take shape
around us
Others of us are
trying to make sense
of what’s happening
as the chrysalis
grows closer to sealing
its edges with us inside
Once in full darkness,
we may be able
to let go
to rest
to re-create
But in the moments
as the light is fading
and we can’t see clearly,
shadows look menacing
and we don’t know
what comes next
Is this where we are?
The Imaginable cells
that turn caterpillar
into butterfly
don’t activate
until the body
of what once was
truly surrenders
into the raw materials
of what will come
I want to help!
I want to lessen
the suffering
of this passage!
But she reminds
the helper in me
that the butterfly’s struggle
to emerge from the cocoon
is essential
to strengthen its wings
If I prod at the crack
to help it out
a little sooner
than its right timing
I could limit its
future strength
and the resiliency
necessary
for its survival
She also reminds me
that not everyone,
nor every thing,
survives
a Rite of Passage
and that’s part of
what makes it powerful
and real
It feels
like things are becoming
really, really, really real
===
REFUGE
A part of me
would rather be
designing floor plans
for a tiny house
Or waking up
delighted to meet
the new day
whatever it may bring
I’d even rather
be sorting
the fresh white footies
and the colorful wools
in my sock drawer
Instead, I’m leaning in
listening with my heart
as if what’s here
inside of “me”
is worthy
of my undivided attention
and even my appreciation
I’m learning
to be a refuge
for my pain
and for your pain
a safe home
and resting place
for my own humanity
and ours