I’m still learning.
—Michelangelo, on his deathbed
Sometimes I feel as if
I missed something.
Something big. The sermon
that would forge a love affair
with the divine.
The history lesson
that would teach me
how to forgive myself.
The webinar that would train
me in doing the right thing
at the right time. If only
I had read the right book
or met the right coach
or drunk the right tea. If only.
I don’t believe it, not really,
though sometimes
I wish it were as easy
as auditing a class.
Perhaps that is why
I write poems.
I’m taking notes.
Because sometimes
the truth slips into them.
Because it’s surprisingly easy
to forget.