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Posts Tagged ‘connection’

Setting

In every conversation

there is a table made of listening.

Sometimes the tables are beautiful,

solid, clean—the kind

that can support anything

you put on them.

Sometimes, they’re like

the tv dinner trays

of my childhood—

a little rickety, but they’ll do

if what’s put on them is light.

Sometimes they’re so cluttered

that whatever’s placed on their surface

is almost immediately lost.

Let tonight’s table have a small vase of flowers

and a candle perhaps, nothing else.

May it be small enough we might

see each other’s eyes, might notice

every nuance of breath. Whomever

I am most nervous to invite,

may I invite them. And though

the tea is just a metaphor,

may I offer. May they accept.

Find this poem published in the amazing ONE ART POETRY

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That Song

I want to slip into the song

you sang, the one with verse

about loss. I want to hang

on its notes as if they were branches

I could swing from, want to climb

through its chorus, want to meet it

in its rests, want to offer it tea.

I want to ask the guitar

about your fingers, about

how they knew where

to find the melody. And how?

I want to speak with the loss itself,

want to ask it if it’s sure its lost,

want to offer it a map made of apples

and wings and moon.

I want to hear the silence after

the song, and then beg it, beg it,

to keep singing.

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Always Home

 

 

 

And on that Saturday morning

when you feel isolated, alone,

no matter the time, or even

if it’s a Tuesday, call me.

I won’t be able to fix anything,

but I will remind you that you

are home, right there in your body,

you are home. And I will listen

as you weep. I will listen.

And though I won’t sing

in a way you can hear,

I will sing for you. I will sing

a circle around you,

I will sing you home.

 

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Perhaps we stumbled

on the words, perhaps

we forgot a note,

forgot a bridge,

bumbled our entrances,

fumbled our parts,

but we sang, oh yes,

we sang into the low golden light

of summer, sang

because joy, because

harmony, sang because

lonely, because fear,

sang because, tears

spilling down our cheeks,

we could sing, oh friends,

before we said goodbye,

we could sing.

 

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That was the afternoon

we watched the avalanches—

dozens and dozens of them

flowing over the cliff bands.

How beautiful they were

from a distance—

bright falls of billowing snow.

They began as dark rumble,

then burst into plume, into rush.

Unstoppable they were.

Powerful. Inevitable.

Such a gift to feel humbled,

to exult in forces

greater than our own.

 

Later that night, reading

the tumbling graphs,

the sliding accounts,

the unforgiving reports,

I began to understand

the scale of the cliff.

 

And as everything

I thought I knew

slid over the escarpments

of comprehension,

how clear it all became.

What really matters.

How we’re all in this together.

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One Almost Light

 

 

reaching into the dark

the underside of the moon

reaching darkly back

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Not that I want to be someone else,

just that I want to be less myself,

 

which is to say less the woman

who thinks she knows anything

 

about anything—gardening or writing

or skiing or parenting or loving—

 

I want to be less who I am and

more what a tree is, what a star is,

 

protons fused with other protons,

and the strong force that holds

 

particles together in the center of atoms,

and the weak force that breaks the atoms down,

 

and the electromagnetic force that binds

all molecules. Yes, this is how I want to meet you,

 

without a name, unencumbered by a me,

a collection of atoms and forces that rhyme

 

with you, linked as we are from the very beginning.

How easy it is then to say hello, to fall in love

 

with each other, the world.

 

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Despite the fact the road is empty

there’s a way that two friends

 

will bump into each other as they walk,

as if they are two wine glasses clinking,

 

toasting to the trees around them,

to the cold clear air, to the laughter

 

that rises, to the joy of finding themselves

walking the same road at the same time.

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Longing to Help

 

 

The world enters

us as breath. We

return to it itself

as breath.

            —Joseph Hutchison, “Comfort Food: Breath”

 

 

And so today, on a day

when I feel quite sure

I can’t give you anything,

not anything that really matters,

I give you my breath.

It’s more conceptual

than actual, perhaps,

though scientists say

that the molecules we breathe

have been redistributed

in our atmosphere

for a century or two.

I decide to breathe as if.

As if with each breath,

I connect to you. As if

with each breath, we

become just a little

more each other

one molecule at a time.

 

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beside the floodplain

acre after acre of pale blue

thousands of wild iris—

 

just thinking of sharing them

they become (is it possible?)

yes, more beautiful

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