So much grace available, but how we receive it depends on what we can let go of.
—Joi Sharp
Inside the place where we are right, the rain
can never fall. Inside the place where we
are right, the leaves fall yellowed off the trees.
No breeze. No bells. No peaches. We explain.
We judge, contend, defend and claim, maintain
our certainty. And meanwhile, we don’t see
the lilacs wilting, grasses browning, bees
without their hives, lost crows, the sunset drained.
But sometimes in this shrinking cage of right
wings in a doubt. A question. Nothing’s clear.
And see how soon the crows return, a slight
of breeze, a scent of rain. I’ll meet you here,
this open place, exposed, unclosed. How light
spills in as our defenses disappear.
Ahh, that wondrous seed of doubt—lookit what happens when it wings under our defenses, gestates, and takes root. When we loosen our grips on being right, things become more right in the world.
You’ve crafted a succinct depiction of our closed-up world when we “maintain our certainty,” our being right. And with a deft pen, your second stanza shows “a more excellent way.” Love the final two sentences: “I’ll meet you here…as our defenses disappear.”
Thanks dear Ed
A perfect Italian sonnet, even the shift in the right place. And I love where the poem goes at that shift, the doubt, but a kind of acceptance of that doubt, which is the better shade of being right.