Posts Tagged ‘connection’

One Renewal



eavesdropping on my own heart

surprised to hear your heart beating

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One for Your Glass



in me a wine

I want to pour for you—

each sip made

from a thousand tiny bells

still waiting to ring


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the semicolon,

ever winking, ever promising

two independents can come together—

a tiny constellation

glittering beneath my pinkie

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Wiping the spider mites

off the gardenia,

I am not proud of the work.

I know the nearly invisible pests

will not go away

if nothing is done.

The gardenia will die

if they thrive.

I reduce us all to protons

and electrons, gluons and quarks,

all of us more similar than not,

perhaps even exchanging

parts as I move the damp cloth

across the leaves

in an attempt

to keep something whole

even as the world

spins apart.


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Walking on the muddy path, I try

to convince myself it would be easy

to be happy. I’m not hurt, my family is well,

and the sun is almost out. I tell myself,

look, look how the ice from last night’s storm

clings to the tips of the branches

and, as it melts, see how the whole world

seems to gather in a drop. But there is a snarl

deep within that is snagged in the thorns,

trapped in the ice, intent on locking itself

out of heaven. It scowls at the wind,

at the sound of the traffic, it grimaces

at the story of itself and retells the same

sad story. It is hours later I notice

how easy it is to fall in love with the world—

how it takes no effort, no convincing at all

to weep at the beauty of hundreds of people

singing together, oh the deep melting,

how the whole world gathers in a drop.




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One Wandering





before seeing the bush

the scent of a wild rose—

the crow and I alone together

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Out of Obstacles



Walls will only crush you when they fall.

—Ray La Montagne, “Be Here Now”



So when

a wall forms

between us



reuse each

brick as cobblestone


we’ll build

our own path

as we go.


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for Corinne



It is muddy, the road,

and steep, and that feels,

somehow, just right today

as we walk with no sense

of destination. You tell me

your dreams. I tell you mine.

By accident, I find myself

holding the string of your hoodie—

the long blue ribbon has swung

from your waist

into my hand, and somehow

it becomes just enough

of a lifeline for me to weep,

as if this thin connection

to you is enough of a tether

that whatever in me

has been trying to be strong,

can crumple.

Sometimes we don’t know

just how much we need each other

until, by chance, we find ourselves

strangely connected. Umbilical,

we are all each other’s children.

As we walk, we see the spindrift

of small avalanches misting at the end

of the box canyon. Such dangerous beauty.

Something inside each of us longs

for this kind of release.

We walk on, and talk and listen.

Each time I take hold of the string,

I begin again to weep. There is no shame in this.

We reach a turning point—

though it is arbitrary.

On the way down,

you take my hand

and we swing our arms with our gait.

When we let go,

I feel in my hand where your warmth has been.

All day, I feel tethered.

All day, I remember

how beautiful it was,

the snow as it fell

through the cliffs.




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Dear Scarecrow




I, too, wish to confer with the flowers.

I, too, wish to consult with the rain,

but I have spent so many years

learning that I’ve lost the ability

to speak and listen in these natural tongues.

Today I sat beside an old spruce tree

for an hour and never understood

what it had to tell me. I tried.

Perhaps that is the problem, the trying.

I don’t know how to do it any other way.

Oh Scarecrow, I know too much.

Me and all my certainties. I’ve made walls

out of what I took as wisdom, and now

I cannot see around them. I made

stories out of facts and histories, and now

I cannot hear the spruce. I can barely

hear my own wild heart as it shouts

in some strange language I have

filed away or perhaps I never knew?

Oh this brain, how it costumes

everything else into terms of risks,

probabilities and rules.

How I long to listen clearly

to the flowers, to the rain,

to my heart, to the spruce.

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Two Tendernesses




while I shovel

and fold clothes and wash

bowls and chop

yellow peppers, all day with both hands

I cradle your heart




while I am walking

you are all around me,

you go on as far as I can see—

I have no stars to offer you,

you hold me, anyway

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