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Archive for December, 2022


I think of a year ago
and all I did not know.
I do not hold my innocence
against myself.
If there is a future me,
I toast her tonight.
May she look back at me
as I light this white candle
and whisper love into the flame.
May her thoughts be generous
as she remembers
how it is to live
with this heart,
both ruined
and burnished by loss.
As I toe the edge of the year,
the edge of the moment,
I imagine her waiting
on the other side, saying,
Jump, sweetheart, jump,
I’ve got you.
Or perhaps she says
nothing at all,
but stands there as I do now
looking back,
arms impossibly open.

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One Hush

between cupped palms
it flutters and tickles—
this secret growing wings

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Remembering


All those nights
we’d go to the hot springs.
Once warm,
we’d roll in snow
and call ourselves
sugar cookies
then jump back
into steaming water.
Today, I do it again.
In the untouched snow
beside my shape
I see where your slender
shape is not.
I slip back
into the water.
Everything the snow
has touched
tingles.
Everything your life
has touched
is even more alive.

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Saying Goodbye




To say goodbye to one person you love
is to say goodbye to part of yourself.

I must have them, you think. You think,
I can never be whole without them.

But in that gap of the fabric, that tear made of love,
is a place you can climb into at any time

and know the true shape of yourself, which is infinite.
Sometimes it takes the sharp ache of loss

to feel into the truth of our interconnectedness,
to know what the quantum physicists know—

how woven we are with each other,
with the universe,

how woven we are with all that is living
and all that is what we call dead.

Though it’s science, it’s also a kind of faith.
And it’s dark. And it’s sweet. And it’s beautiful,

and it’s terrifying, this thread that reminds us
just how much we belong to the rest of the world,

this thread we can’t untie even if we want to,
this thread that tethers us to one another, to eternity.

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One Late Night

carrying out the trash
this, too,
a holy path

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This, too, is Christmas, the quiet
walk on the quiet road in the quiet air.
The only carol here—
unending verses of river.
The only gifts we brought—
our attention, our trust.
This feast is for the heart.
There is a generosity to the sunshine
no candle could equal.
It’s a deep sweetness
to be wrapped in blue sky,
a deep sweetness
to share heartache, exhaustion—
something I would never wish for anyone,
and yet, this Christmas day,
the sharing of it,
such a beautiful present.

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Every Christmas Eve

 

            for Diane
 
 
surrounded by bows
and ribbons, we sit on the floor
and wrap into the small hours—
all the while we unwrap our hearts
and give them again and again to each other  

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Making a Wild Space

title from a line by MK Creel in “Before the longest night”


The way the elk herd
owned the highway tonight—
standing in the road,
surrounding the cars,
making its presence known,
that’s how I hope love
comes into my life this year.
Impossible to ignore.
So much bigger than I,
fluid and ubiquitous.
Something that stops me
and insists I pay attention,
fills me with wonder
as it thunders and bugles
through the dark hours,
something that astonishes,
ordinary though it is.

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If I could go back in time
and offer advice to my younger self,
I wouldn’t.
I would let her fail all over again.
I’d let her falter. I’d let her lose.
I’d let her stumble
and struggle and bomb.
But I would lean in close
and let her know
I am deeply in love with her.
It’s so easy now to give her this,
this self-compassion in full bloom,
this thing she believed
was impossible.

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One Ghost


 
 
camera with no film—
taking photos of all the places
you are not

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