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Posts Tagged ‘being present’

The Diagnosis

 

 

 

Well, he said, I’ve seen it before.

You have all the symptoms.

Fairly common, actually.

You have life. It’s terminal.

I will give you, oh, about

forty years to live. Some people

really pull through, make the most

out of what they have left.

 

As he walked away, I listened

to his footsteps until all I could hear

was the sound of my own breathing.

God, it was beautiful, a tide, a river.

And that plant in the corner, have you

ever seen anything so delicate, so green?

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Big Love

 

 

 

singing the same song

again and again—

each time, finding new wings

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Some mornings, for no reason,

the world is newer. The color

of the grass, the scent of last night’s rain,

the feel of the lover’s skin.

Everything feels charged

and abuzz with itself.

You might say, and

I would not argue,

that the world and everything in it

is another day older.

Yes, of course, and there

is also this: the taste of this peach—

I have tasted peaches before—

but this one is so very peach,

so remarkably peach,

like something I have known

only very, very new.

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The snow begins
then stops to fall.
In the alley, brown
tracks run against the white.

The gray folds through the air
and unfolds. Nothing
about this day seems
capable of settling in.

It is a like a woman
thinking about what
she wants. The blossoms
of her thoughts open

like roses in fast forward.
They wilt and dry in similar
fashion. They are out of season.
This does not stop them.

Sometimes we like to think
we are waiting. Waiting
for something marvelous to happen,
or waiting for an ache to disappear,

or waiting for gray to be
something other than gray.
And sometimes we see what
a gift it is, this indecisive day,

this watching imaginary blooms
that seem so real you can almost
smell the red perfume, almost.
Outside the window,

it is snowing again. No,
not snowing. But the gray
it has settled in and now
the dirty tracks look

like empty staves and anyone
listening might hear through the glass
how the birds don’t wait
to fill in the space with song.

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Useless the trail
I thought would take me back—
the crumbs are still there
but I no longer believe
in going back

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Vivian Learns Present Progressive

Finn says to me yesterday, on Mother’s Day, “Mom, when is kid’s day?” My husband replied, “Everyday.” So in that spirit of the ongoing celebration of our children–how they teach us and undo us–here’s a poem published today in the beautiful Journey of the Heart blog. 

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They’re higher than I would have thought,
these walls, and colder, too, the sunlight
only reaching the top of the maze. But I
have my thread and a crust of rye bread.
I am shuddering sooner than I’d imagined I would,
only six turns in. The sword is too heavy to carry.
I turn to the walls themselves, and say to them
what I have rehearsed to say to the minotaur:
What do you have to teach me?
Already it is unclear why I am here. Was I chosen?
Did I choose this? The walls say nothing at all.
They say, What does it matter why? You are here.
I drop the thread, eat the bread, lean the sword
against the wall and sing whatever tune
comes. The song ricochets in the narrow halls
and rises out of the maze toward the sky. I can see
it is blue. I can smell the wild roses that just this week
came into bloom, and though they are not in here,
they’re here. I ask the roses, what do you have
to teach me? They say nothing. They say,
it is not how to die, it’s how to be alive.
The minotaur, I hear his snarl. Part of me favors
to crouch. Part of me tucks the pink scent into my hair.

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I cannot make
the flowers bloom

any faster
than they are,

but I can
right now

bend
my knees

beside the barren
lilac bush

and notice
how it, too,

is beautiful,
all spindle and gnarl,

its branches not
too small, too big,

can choose
to praise

those tight,
gray fists of buds

for being so tight,
so gray.

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Here

Perhaps
these rocks
that look
like stumb-
ling blocks
are cairns,
and I
have, with
such diligence,
been kicking
them from
my way—
oh foolish
woman
who thought
that she
was lost.

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Second Hand

The watchmaker burns
the plans she’d drawn
and winds the blood
of her own clock. Drip.
Drop. She is delinquent.
She is crow. The only time
she tocks is now.

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