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Posts Tagged ‘emptiness’

 

 

For an hour and a half, my son and I

create emptiness. All those places

where there was snow

on the drive and the walk,

we shovel them until there’s a long,

sinewy swath of absence.

It is deeply satisfying,

this moving of matter

from one place to another,

creating a path, a way.

When we are done, we lean

on our shovels and revel

in what is missing. We high five

and smile and feel as if we’ve really

accomplished something together.

How oddly full I feel

after this effort of emptying.

How many paths in me

are waiting to be exposed?

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One of the rooms

in the longest night

has an empty chair

and an open book—

and in the book

is an empty page

full of light—

if you read it

long enough

you might forget

what an hour is,

or night,

forget all stories

besides this one,

older than scripture,

where everything

is possible.

 

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One the Day After

 

 

 

on my lap

the emptiness refuses to purr—

it is all that I hear

 

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Hymn to What’s Bare

 

 

 

Last night’s wind scoured

the trees and stripped

their boughs—

it is easy in today’s calm

to wish my soul had been out

in the woods last night.

Emptiness reveals more

than all the gold, all design.

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Still Life

No leaves on the trees

beside the ditch,

and the first snow

outlines in white what remains

in their absence.

What remains is

the dark gesture of tree,

thrust and jut and extend.

Just this morning,

Meredith taught me

to see the movement

in what appears to be still—

even a brown jar,

she says, suggests twist

and elongate and turn.

I wonder if I could be still

like that, still enough

that the snow might settle

on me, though I’m reach

and wrestle and brawl.

This is our practice,

to move at the same time

toward quietude, toward swirl;

to be the scaffolding that holds up

the miracle; to be shine and rise and fall.

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Two Nearlys

Two Nearlys

these empty hands—

there was a time

they grasped for emptiness

*

just before the words

there’s the chance to say nothing—

trees don’t have this problem

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I find a deserted nest
just big enough to carry
in one hand—
it is beautiful, this emptiness,
so beautiful I want to hold it.

Somewhere else, a great migration.
I cradle the wreath of dried grass.
It is another kind of journey
to stay.

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