Posts Tagged ‘ache’

How Much Wider?

Tonight the heart
is a vase filled
with thistles
and lilies, burdock
and roses, knapweed
and voluptuous peonies.
It is perhaps not
the bouquet I would choose,
but it is what is here.
But it’s hard to hold it all,
I say to the world.
And it is. It’s too much,
I say. But is it?
And I’m scared
the vase will break.
But it doesn’t.
Instead it widens
to contain what is in it—
stems of puncturevine
and poppies,
leafy spurge and
delicate lisianthus.
And so I hold it,
I hold it all.
And the vase doesn’t break,
but oh, as it widens,
the ache.

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In the front seat,

I am talking with Ulli

about all the people we know

who are hurting.


They are people we love,

and there are no right words to say,

so we say the words we can—

I’m sorry. That’s hard. I hope


it will be okay.

We drive past a family of deer

standing on an island

in the center of the Uncompaghre River.


We oooh with the pleasure

of seeing them, their bodies, slight,

moving both separately and together.

Just an hour ago, we were singing


a whole concert of love songs, and though

not all the notes were right,

the spirit with which we sang

was no less true.


It was easy, in those moments

to believe in harmony,

to smile and really mean it.

I urge the car to follow the curves


of the river road.

There is a gate we pass

that is crooked. For years, each time

I have passed it I long to make it straight.


This time is no different.

I ask myself, Can you fall in love

with the world as it is,

this world in which no words


can make things right?

To the west, I spot a hawk

sitting in the empty branches.

I would like to slow down here


to watch it sit. The road curves on.

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