Years after the ten-word lesson in impermanence,
the truth of the words still comes to me—not always,
of course. For instance, not today as I skied with my daughter,
the sky relentlessly blue. Not as I folded the sourdough loaf,
the dough soft and stretchy in my floured hands. Not as I walked
up the driveway with my son, backwards, doubled over
in laughter. No, it never occurs to me when I am
at home in my gladness. Only later it comes, when thoughts do
what thoughts do—insist on forever, long for assurance, hope for more.
But always, buoyed by joy, enabled by bliss, the truth comes
to me, not like a pin in a balloon. Not like a shriek in the night.
Not like a thorn. More like a friend who is always there to hold
my hand and squeeze it as if to say, yes, that’s right,
it’s hard to let go. Still, there’s so much more to love. See
that chickadee at the feeder? See the shape of the river?
Note the color of eggplant’s skin? Come. See how the sky
stirs with purple and pink? See, it’s still lovely now
that the purple is gone?