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Posts Tagged ‘attention’

 

 

 

Slicing the tomato

as if the world depends

on how well the tomato

is sliced—tell me

that it doesn’t taste

sweeter, sharper,

more red.

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I return to find the basil dead,

wilted and browned, dull limp flags.

 

And the cosmos, bent and spent

and dead. And the beans, dead.

 

And the marigolds, still brilliant,

but the forked tongues of their leaves

 

say they are dead. What a difference

one night of cold can make, how

 

no matter how warm the season has been,

it irrevocably changes things.

 

It doesn’t matter I knew it would happen

eventually. The petunias fall all over themselves

 

in profuse bloom as if to say, it’s okay,

not all is lost, but it’s enough to make a woman

 

decide to pay attention, to be warm

in every garden she enters.

 

Some blooms defy the seasons.

There’s so much beauty at stake.

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In the Darkness

 

 

 

rubbing ideas

together like sticks—

lucky to get a spark

 

but sometimes,

just noticing

the world as it is,

 

our attention

builds entire bridges

made of light

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But not this one,

its pale under wings

 

flapping and gliding, soaring

on the updraft,

the rise of it, oh,

the surprise of its shape.

 

How easily the world

rewards our attention,

 

how easily I

lose track.

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The world exists just fine without
our appreciation. It is not for us
that the dandelions bloom in tides of yellow

across the valley floor. It is not for us
that the elk stream in a slow brown current
before they disappear into the Englemann spruce.

And then there are the tiny empires
of grasshoppers, ants and bees—
and the underground realms of prairie dogs

and worms and rhizomes and moles—
so much of the world we never see.
And still, this drive toward gratitude.

Still this tug to pull over the car and step out,
this impulse to offer the world my attention.
As if being very still were as vital to

the moment as the scurry and swerve,
scamper and stride. As perhaps it is.

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Four Gifts

clouded sky
I never doubt
the stars

*

yellow dotted line
one foot on either side
walking with the crow

*

clenched, clutched, still
the only thing that makes sense
open the heart again

*

listening
inside the wailing
silence

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Love Becomes Her

When we use our attention to touch and open the deeper truth in a person, we not only catalyze the experience of love, we become love. The source of love is revealed to be within us; we no longer have to go looking for it somewhere outside.
—Nicole Daedone, “Love Becomes Her,” Tricycle Magazine

It is not too late for love.
Tonight the moon rose,

as it always does, but it
was not the same. It rose

as if close enough to touch,
right there, but I could not touch it.

I gave it my whole attention, then,
listened only to the sound

of it turning while we, too,
were turning, though the sage,

the rocks, the dry arroyo
did not attest to our turning.

The desert had other sounds, too,
but I had, for that moment,

ears only for the moon,
and felt, how strange, my own rising,

felt it so fully I nearly cheered
as the whole vacant shine of it

crested the mesa, cheered though
it was further away then,

or so it seemed, further away, or so,
I see, it only seemed.

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So busy watching my feet
move over the small stones,
dried leaves, paths of ants,
it is a long time before
I see the birds.

*

What is it I am circling?
What is this longing
to name it?

*

The slats of shadow
and light only look
like prisons.
We slide through the bars
like song.

*

The bell does not ring
when we call it bell. It rings
with the playing of it.

*

And what is playing me,
this too-solid bell of a
flesh called woman,
Hollow me, I am
diligently practicing
my one note
in the symphony.

*

All these obstacles,
and still
the unspiraling line.

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no matter how open
the heart, the eyes can only
follow one snowflake

*

tonight a whole hat
is stitched out of the promise
just two more minutes

*

all these flowers
I’ve learned by proper name
let’s relearn by scent

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That bald eagle
flies this canyon every day
today I saw him

*

all day I try
to scrape it off my skin
that bad dream

*

long after you leave
the chairs remain hushed so to
better hear you sing

*

every story
I’ve ever had
the end

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