Jenny's Place

Nothing,

Is ever truly lost,

Or forgotten.

No woe begotten sadness lingers there,

She is just behind the air,

Among the Russian Olives,

Wild flowers,

Queen Anne’s lace,

And the moss creped oaks.

Her girl’s face a mystery,

Her rest a fair

And sacred place.

Beside the trail

In that verdant space.

She lives in seasons that pass,

The hours that unfold and the

Fast years---- as they go by,

For those of us who see her

And rest on Jenny Ryan’s bench.

‘Memorial Bench’

Is the formal name,

And always,

The view

Is never the same----

From day to night.

In the morning,

Time,

Past the mourning,

Only joy sits there,

And spirits rest

To calm the test of life.

On warm summer days,

The silvered bench

Bares the wear of those

Who pause,

And listen,

To birdsong,

Rustling leaves,

Vineyard noise

In the poise of stillness.

Some signer

Leaves graffito,

Small…elegant,

Alien runes---

Time after time after time.

Is it an abomination?

Or a sign of love?

There are those who,

Wash with bleach

Time after time after time

The mystic intrusions,

Unaware that Jenny

Delights in the art

That honors…

Memorializes

With its radical heart

Of involvement.

After dark

In transient passage,

Owls, foxes, skunks, possums,

And others who prowl

Pass by

The ancient, gnarled trunk of olive

Across her way,

Which brings

Every Spring

Fresh, young sprouts.

And, touts anew----

The ever green.

On bright nights

Moonbeams stream

Down,

Over the tulley fog,

Glimmers the silver bench

And rolls over the waves of grass,

Leaving for the dawn

Wet, watery drops of dew

Refracting from pointed tips

Colors of white, red, green and blue.

Dawn becomes Jenny

Gold and bright,

Pink and silver

To a girl’s delight

And Dusk,

Her velvet rest.

Jenny Ryan Smith  1972-1985

"When you acknowledge the integrity of your solitude, and settle into its mystery, your relationships with others take on a new warmth, adventure and wonder."

John O’Donahue