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Posts Tagged ‘connection’

 

 

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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Ode to Tears

 

 

The way day doesn’t fight

the dim before night. The way

shore does not resist the river’s rise.

The way air does not refuse

the beat of wing—that’s the way

I want to let tears come.

Why do I try to force

them from falling?

Not that it works anyway.

Still, this defiance, this struggle

to appear unmoved. And why?

When there are children who laugh

and a sky that blues and stories

that break us and laughter that

seizes us? Why try to pretend

we are not changed by the way

a child loves her mother or

a friend perseveres through cancer

or the way a math teacher reminds us we have

86,400 seconds a day to spend

and if we don’t spend them,

they are gone. It is logical to weep

when met with beauty, it is practical

to let the tears release instead

of all this stupid pretending that

we are too cool or too smart or too

sophisticated to be stirred.

No, better to notice when our toes

are dipped in the grand stream

that unites us all and let that water

move right through our eyes—

better not to try to explain it.

Better to wade in the course of tears

and refuse any boat that would keep us

from touching the water. After all,

we know how to swim. After all,

there are so many reasons

to give in to who we are.

 

 

 

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And if you should find yourself

in the parking lot of tears,

then I will knit you a handkerchief

of poems—they won’t stop

the crying, but then you

will never weep alone—

every tear a chance to connect,

every tear a chance

to fall deeper in love.

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One Tuning

 

 

you and I—

two notes in a minor chord

longing for resolution

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A metal table in the sun. Beyond it, winter.

Two women sit, brought here by rambling.

 

One woman weeps, tears of mortality.

The other woman rhymes with her.

 

Everything rhymes eventually, though

neither of them know it yet. The grass.

 

The snow. The dirt. The way the two women lean

into shadows. It’s not that time makes demands,

 

it’s just that the women still see themselves

as separate. They grasp at the present,

 

thinking this makes them a part of it.

Meanwhile, the birds. Meanwhile,

 

the trees. Meanwhile, the cells, changing.

Meanwhile the sun slides down the sky.

 

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Every Time

 

 

and after the lights were out

and after my mother had kissed me goodnight

I would pull from under my pillow

 

the book, the flashlight, and for hours

in the quiet house, no matter how difficult

the day had been, no matter how low I felt,

 

for those hours I was so glad to be alive

in someone else’s story, and every time,

when I when I tugged long enough on its lines,

 

I could not help but notice

how each story was my story, too.

 

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stepping into your heart

surprised to find a large empty chair

with my name on it—

in the dust, I write thank you,

then curl in

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One Art

 

for Sherry

 

 

in a time of thorns

finding the smallest joy—

making a room in it

big enough

we can all slip in

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I imagine writing a one-line poem

long enough to reach you—

imagine how the words might quiver

in the wind, how I might climb

their serifs like a thin-runged ladder

and follow the words

to you like breadcrumbs,

like footprints, like hope.

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We are perhaps like neurons

that never touch—

but that doesn’t stop

the chemical buzz,

the lightning charge,

the electric thrill

that leaps the gap—

and in that span

all meaning is made,

long red ropes of memory

twisting and knotting,

braiding, unbraiding,

and nothing

is ever the same.

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