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Posts Tagged ‘falling in love with the world’

 

 

 

After hoping and trying

and failing and hoping

and trying and failing

and hoping and trying

and failing the mind

perhaps will finally say

I don’t know what comes next

and, startled by the sweet

clarity of this, the body

raises both arms, though

the mind didn’t tell it to—

yes, the arms rise weightless

and open, as if there is nothing

they aren’t ready to embrace,

as if the world as it is

might come rushing in.

 

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A woman’s soft skin, I have it—

not on my hands, which thrill

 

to garden and spread shine—but

soft I am in neck and belly and the long

 

slow reaches of my side body.

I hum like a woman, and

 

laugh like a woman and weep

for beauty, for sorrow.

 

In the early evening,

I leave on the lawn

 

the long curving shadow of a woman.

Sometimes I even fool myself—

 

but sometimes I remember

I am also sand and elephant,

 

skylark and sunflower,

blood orange and button,

 

wind,

and the stillness after.

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“Look,” she says, “at the light

on the waves,” and no matter what else

has happened today,

there it is, the light, the light on the waves,

and for this moment it’s beauty enough

that the rest of the world

falls away, and I fall in love

with being alive

and with the light,

the light on the waves.

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On a day when the desert potholes
are full of pollywogs and tiny
red-speckled frogs and the blue sky
is dappled with pink-bellied clouds,
and the San Juan is running muddy
and warm, well, you don’t have to have almost just died
to realize how lucky you are to be alive—
nope, it just comes natural, this wanting
to kiss your children, even though
they are whining all day about how
the desert is just full of rocks
and it’s so boring. Yeah, it just kind of happens,
this flash flood of gratitude, this falling in love
with everything dust can do.

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Live in the present. Do the things that need to be done. Do all the good you can each day. The future will unfold.
-Peace Pilgrim

Again the invitation
to meet the world just as it is
and fall in love.

To let the body weep
if it wants to weep.
To let the voice sing

because the song rises up
and says sing.
It does not matter

who is watching.
See the kingfisher, how he does not hesitate
before diving headlong

into the pond.
Love like that.
Do it now.

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Sometimes I forget
the trees. It’s embarrassing
to admit. Like saying I forget

I have hands. But
days go by when I do not
consider them. And then

some mornings, today,
for instance, the trees,
like an Indian saint

hurling petals at her attendants,
throw their fluffy white catkins
into my hands, my hair,

into my everywhere I look
until everything is baptized
in white cotton down

and I half expect the giant limbs
to pull me into a great gray trunk
and hold me close, whispering

into my ear, in words so quiet
no one else can hear, my daughter,
my daughter, my daughter, my daughter.

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Tonight I am too blood tired
to pretend I am happy.
Too tired to hold up any
face. Outside the world is slow-
ing to a stiller version
of itself. I feel myself
stilling, but not ending, not
yet. I once heard a story
about a man who ran bare
foot through a cornfield in fall
and woke the next day with holes
in his feet. For years, I have
dreamed it was me, and could I
go on walking after that?
Tonight the word is yes. Tired
as I am, the drive to walk
and walk and fall in love with
the world—though harsh, though bristled—
is stronger than any urge
to give up. If I give up
anything, it’s this crazy
compulsion to please. I am
tired, too blood tired to pretend
anything, but not too tired
to keep on walking, walking.

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