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Posts Tagged ‘busy’

 

 

 

 

Today I woke in the dark and was busy

making lunches during the sunrise,

though surely it happened. And I drove

 

in the low morning light along

the San Miguel River for half an hour,

not once noticing the color of the water,

 

the scent on the banks, though past

experience leads me to believe

that there were thousands, millions,

 

of tiny beautiful miracles happening

there in that half hour alone. How much

beauty is lost on me every day, every moment?

 

Though as I stepped out of the car

to walk into work, I saw, stuck to my boot, one

brilliant orange aspen leaf outlined in gold,

 

and for a whole minute, I stared at it,

marveled at its symmetrical veins,

its delicate stem, the astonishing intricacy

 

of its edges. How easily gloriousness finds us, sticks

to us even. How wholly available, this art

of meeting the glittering, luminous world.

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Self-forgiveness is not the first impulse.

In fact, I curse. Run my hands through my hair,

 

tug at my scalp. Sigh. Again. My shoulders fall slack

in the place where my wings would be.

 

In my gut, the seed of apology starts to root.

Perhaps that is what changes things,

 

what allows me to let failure look me in the face,

let it trace my cheeks, the barest caress.

 

It never asks me to be beautiful. It never

expects nor wants perfection. It touches me so tenderly,

 

is it any wonder that soon the apology

spills from my lips like the clearest stream,

 

and I stand in the cold clear rush of it.

The whole world looks different from here.

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Arriving at the starting line

I think of the marathon to come—

somewhere there’s a man

 

with a gun and a timer.

Somewhere there’s another line

I hope to cross.

 

Somewhere there’s a woman

who doesn’t know there is a race.

She knows only that the juncos

 

have come, and if she is still enough

she can see their white tail feathers

flashing in flight.

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            for all the busy people

 

 

that’s when I hope you remember

the skylark, not so much the bird,

though that, too—how it sings

even while being chased by hunters,

though it increases its chances

of being caught.

 

But more, I hope you will think

of Johnny Mercer who struggled

a year to write the words

to the tune by Hoagy Carmichael.

By the time he finished Skylark,

Carmichael had forgotten

all about the song.

Sometimes, it takes a long,

long time before the words

come out right. Sometimes,

the moment just isn’t ripe. Sometimes

there’s just too much to do.

 

But perhaps amidst the meetings

and the plans, a snatch of song

will come to you, something

that won’t be ignored.

Perhaps between the papers

and the rush, you will feel it,

winging. Perhaps, as you fly off

toward the always what’s next,

you won’t stop yourself

from singing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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adios map
from now on I travel
in

flower to flower—
so much honey here I turn
it into work

why are you surprised
I’m naked? I don’t know why
you’re not

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