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The Clearing


 
Already the river is lighter in color, 
less brown, less turbid, more 
translucent. Just yesterday 
the currents were thick with mud 
and logs, needles and sticks 
and bits of once-living debris. 
Now that the furious flood has lost 
its force, the gravel and sand 
have begun their settling.
Whatever was floating now rests
on the banks and all that is left 
suspended in the water 
is what is most fine. 
Soon, even that will sink 
and the water will be clear again. 
I, too, have felt the gift of slowing, 
how it invites a sedimentation 
of all I try to carry—the silt of my stories, 
the muck of the world. 
Like a river, the more calm I am, 
the more clear I can become. 
No magic, just a matter of physics. 
How natural it is, the clearing.  

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I want to give myself to life
as completely as the corn lilies rising
from the floor of this clearing.
 
All summer they have practiced
growing from tightness
into an ecstasy of green unfolding.
 
Where have I yet to unfold?
So often I clench around my fear
so long I no longer notice I’m clenching.
 
But here at tree line, there is not
one corn lily still trapped in its tightness,
all of them, now unfurled,
 
beginning their push toward goldening,
toward falling back to the earth,
toward moldering toward nothing.
 
That utterly, I want to give myself.
Want to become the clearing.

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