Posts Tagged ‘connection’



Whatever an open field has always tried to say,

that’s what I long to say to you. That, and the blue thrill

that trills in the larkspur just before it blooms.


And the communion of threads in the blanket,

the sincerity of wild strawberries, and

whatever it is that lavender says to the nose—


those are the notes I would write into the song

I’m still learning to sing, this song I would tuck

into your back pocket so that you might,


in the middle of a day, perhaps, find it there,

like stars behind the blue noon sky

just waiting for their time to emerge.


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It was Concourse B that altered me

as I ran past old women in sarongs

and young wailing children and men

in red ties and couples holding hands.

At first, all humanity felt like a hindrance,

living hurdles between me

and gate B-14 where the plane

for Seattle was already boarding.

But then, and who can say why,

as I stitched past B-70, B-68, B-66,

I began to notice how beautiful they were,

the ones with dark briefcases and the ones

with strollers, tall ones and fat ones and

slight ones and crooked ones,

all of us constellating in the same place

at the same time, star dust

with dreams and goals and heartaches

and hopes. And as I wove through

the fabric of us,

I felt their blessing as they parted

to let me through,

and I blessed them, too,

with a thousand silent thank yous,

astonished at how different we are,

how very much the same.

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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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