Posts Tagged ‘becoming’

Add this to my list of small ecstasies.
            —James Crews
It’s a small ecstasy when,
strolling through the field,
I see the mottled tip
of the blonde morel
pushing up through bent grass.
And another. And another.
They were not here yesterday,
but now I kneel on the earth
with my blade sharp and true
and slice through the strange
and rubbery stems
and hold the handful of treasure
to my nose and breathe in
the earthy, woodsy scent.
So curious to think how they go
from not being here to being here.
Like when I realize I love someone,
but can’t say precisely when love began.
A life is made of such moments—
this wonder that rises
at the miracle of becoming,
this sweet gift of passing through.

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I could live here, says my daughter;
and staring into the generous green
and the time-softened hills,
she sees an open door in the landscape,
a door she could walk through
and call the new place home—
and I watch as she becomes
the hero of her own story,
watch as in the passenger seat
she grows wings, listen as she hums
like a tuning fork suddenly come alive,
struck by her own dreams,
and mygod, its beautiful watching
as aspiration slips itself into her body
and whispers possibilities
and bids her keep her eyes open.

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While I did not fix
the thing I most
wish to fix, and I
did not do
the most important
thing on my list,
and I did not save
anyone, and I did
not solve the world’s
problems, I did
plant the onion sets
in the garden,
pressed my fingers
into the dry earth,
knew myself as
a thin dry start.
Oh patience, good
self. This slow
and quiet growing,
this, too, is
what you are
here to do.

published in ONE ART: A journal of poetry

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The Vendor



And if there were a map

for the path of my own becoming,

I wouldn’t buy it.

I tried. I marched up to the vendor

of maps, took out my coin,

and held it out for the exchange,

but was startled by an inner revolt—

not an angry crowd but a quiet, insistent no.

I put the coin back in my pocket

and walked away, wildly aware

I had no idea what step came next.

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Even then she was becoming

a dreamer, a lover of bark,

a student of solitude. Even then

she noticed how there were places

and moods that words couldn’t touch—

even then she felt the joy in trying anyway.

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For Her to Find




She watches the window waiting

for the owl to arrive with a letter

in its beak with her name on it,

or perhaps for a faun to show up

in plain clothes and escort her

to the gates of Camp Half Blood

where she might be claimed

as the daughter of Aphrodite.

Oh how she prays for any

formal invitation to a place

where she would discover she is something

more than just a normal girl

with normal talents and a normal

life. I don’t tell her that there

are invitations even now

for her to discover her true nature—

in the pond, on the trunk of the cottonwood,

in the river rocks, in the moss—

all of them magic, just waiting

for her to open them.


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Inner Spring




Today, the cottonwoods

in the canyon are already

more green, more lush

than the day before—

we, too, are everyday

more ourselves, which

is to say less our story

and more whatever

it is that writes the story.

Of course it is not easy

to become, though

look, we can’t stop

becoming no matter

how hard we try,

It’s so soft, the new green,

though you and I both know

what it takes to push through,

to emerge into the cold.

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waiting for forgiveness
as if it were a train
and the rails are long gone


my heart an apple blossom
afraid it doesn’t know
how to become apple

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