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Posts Tagged ‘certainty’

 

As summer leans into the fall,

as sunflowers that lose all

their petals—though it takes

some time. As rhyme

 

that slips toward normal speech.

As evening drifting toward the night.

And when you’re really sure

you’re right, let go as snow evaporates,

 

as puddles dry, as clouds

disperse, as waves unwave,

as light rehearses shadow.

And if you’re still sold

 

you are right, then practice

quietude. Like dirt. Like

bark. Like pearl. Like grass.

Like the moon, so dark, so new.

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So much to learn from the fallen leaves,

the barren trees, the still green moss,

the skittish deer, the unturned stone,

the smooth gray limbs of loss,

fog hung like garland in the woods,

a secret spring, the brittle grass,

the yet unfurling truth in us,

the path that forgets it’s a path.

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One Authority

 

 

 

even knowing what comes next

I choose to turn the page—

delight in being wrong

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Odd joy in the pink eraser rubbings,

joy in the silence just after the timer says start,

joy in the turning of the inner cogs

and the way that the numbers

sprint across the page,

joy in the scratch of the pencil, the stumble

of confidence, in the scrapping of the route

so that a new route can emerge,

joy in arriving at an answer,

an answer so certain you can label it

with units and circle it and know

that tomorrow it would turn out

the same way again, not like any

other part of your life.

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Almost

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
and no. No advice that sticks.
The snow comes down

like an afterthought. A flake
on the street. A flake on the nose.
Sometimes I live this way. Perhapsishly

and maybeing. Sixty-five shades
of gray. No rule I can believe in
enough to write it down. Life

itself the exception. Every day
the proof, and then this snow.
I used to think I knew what

gravity was. And love. True,
the snow comes down. But
the heart? How to explain

this rising, this infinite
falling apart, the tangled
astonishing mess. This snow

falling from nowhere. No. No. No.
No. No. No. I say. And yes.

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I thought I knew what love was,
and picked it from the tree—
red and smooth, hard, round
filled with ruby seeds.

I picked it ripe and lovely,
I cupped it in my hands
but did not want to spill its juice
or tear its flawless skin.

And so I set it in a bowl
to admire it on the table
and I admired till I did not,
until I forgot to see it.

And the skin began to wither,
turned to leathered, sunken rind,
and the color lapsed to dullish rust
and the ruby seeds inside—

I never knew their sweetness,
never tasted their garnet juice.
What became of the weight of love,
this love I thought I knew?

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I curl the question mark of my body
into the silence around us. There is silence

inside of us, too, a pure silence that pools
and spills and overflows making it easier now to not know,

to not even guess what comes next,
and after years of wanting answers and trying

to make the world fit into an equation or an outline
or a calendar square or a rhyme scheme, I am

more easy now with falling into silence, with falling and
not even believing in wings, falling past

the hands reaching out to rescue me as if
falling is a terrible thing. But even falling

is a form of knowing, just a new metaphor,
a new word for path. And even a question mark

knows where it curves, where it is line, where it
breaks, where it becomes a point, one small point

amongst many small points. I am learning,
unlearning, to be less than that.

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