basil on the porch
the morning after a frost
leaves limp and black things—
how greenly it met yesterday
no amount of I’m sorry will do
Posts Tagged ‘forgiveness’
One Unforgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged basil, death, forgiveness, garden, poem, poetry on May 31, 2019| Leave a Comment »
After Being Given the Assignment to Forgive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, friendship, letting go, poem, poetry, time on February 26, 2019| 8 Comments »
It took five days, but at last I thought of you, old friend,
friend I loved and wanted to trust, friend
who burned every bridge I tried to build between us,
who turned gratitude and apology to smoke, to ash,
who taught me that love is not enough—a lesson
I never wanted to learn, which is why I am grateful
you helped me to learn it.
No one gets through life without injury.
Still, I wanted to believe that a kiss and forgiveness
could make things better, but some things
are better left broken. Thank you for teaching me
that all passes, that even without a road, without
a bridge, without a track, the train of time
finds a way to keep moving, eventually
speeding by so fast that what seemed
unable to be overcome becomes a blur
and that hope gives way to something even
more beautiful: saying yes to what is real.
So though you will never know it, I forgive you
for your scissored words and sharpened
silences. I forgive you for giving up on love,
for saying no, goodbye. It takes almost no effort now.
Even uranium has a half-life—albeit 4.5 billion years.
How much sooner forgiveness has come. More like a lawn
that went unwatered and dried to brown, to dust,
but then when seasonal rains returned, turned green.
Yes, thriving and lush, here is the new lay of the land,
ready for anyone to arrive. Anyone. Even you.
Forgiveness 101
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, poem, poetry, sleep on February 21, 2019| 7 Comments »
The first person I forgive today is myself
for staying up too late last night—how
I loved reading into the late hours, the story
crooking its finger at me, tethering me
to its pages. What good does it do
to call myself stupid, to lash out at the part of me
who thrives on those slender moments
when I am alone and the house is quiet
and I am the sister of words. No, better to tell
that late night reader that I’m tired.
Better to smile at her, though she thwarts
the morning me who loves to rise feeling rested.
She does not apologize. I know I will have
to forgive her again. Somehow, when I start
with myself, it makes it easier all day long
to practice forgiveness for others—
the slow drivers, the complainers, the bullies,
the pouters. They probably have happier,
calmer, more rational selves, too,
that they are also thwarting. All day I practice seeing
the heart of a person. All day, when I yawn, I smile.
Becoming Crystalline
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, poem, poetry, salt, transformation on December 8, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Forgive me. I do not mean
to be sharp, stark, sterile.
I’ve read of the salt mines
at Salzburg, how if you throw
a stick, leafless and dead,
into one of the abandoned workings,
then return months later and pull it out,
it will be covered in crystals,
“a galaxy of scintillating diamonds,”
writes Stendahl, “the original
branch no longer recognizable.”
I want to be like that stick.
Take my winter soul
and throw it into the mystery,
though it’s dark and cold
and easy to get lost.
What knows how to attract
the light will grow, will change me
until I barely recognize myself.
I do not mean to be short,
but I hear it in my words.
Stranger things have happened.
What is dead is sometimes
a chance to find new life,
to become a thing shining,
something the same, only fresh,
a thousand times more brilliant.
On a Day When I Realize I’ve Scheduled Two Meetings for the Same Time
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged busy, failure, forgiveness, poem, poetry on March 21, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Self-forgiveness is not the first impulse.
In fact, I curse. Run my hands through my hair,
tug at my scalp. Sigh. Again. My shoulders fall slack
in the place where my wings would be.
In my gut, the seed of apology starts to root.
Perhaps that is what changes things,
what allows me to let failure look me in the face,
let it trace my cheeks, the barest caress.
It never asks me to be beautiful. It never
expects nor wants perfection. It touches me so tenderly,
is it any wonder that soon the apology
spills from my lips like the clearest stream,
and I stand in the cold clear rush of it.
The whole world looks different from here.
As the Pressure Drops
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blizzard, bomb cyclone, compassion, forgiveness, poem, poetry, snow, weather on January 7, 2018| 12 Comments »
Across the country, blizzards—blizzards
so big that folks speak of bombogenesis
while standing in line in the coffee shop.
And the snow begins to fall, snow
blocks out the sun, snow fills the roads,
the drives, the sills until people begin to forget
who they are when there isn’t a storm.
Imagine the storm goes on.
Imagine that it isn’t snow falling,
but forgiveness. Imagine all those people
rising morning after morning to find
themselves buried in compassion.
Piles of it. Heaps of it. Giant white drifts of it.
It must be dealt with before anything else
can happen. Before people can even
walk out the door, they must lift it
and move it and feel its surprising weight.
Who knew there was so much of it? Who knew
just how completely it could shut things down
if not engaged with properly? It takes some time,
perhaps, before the people see
how beautiful it is, how every single thing
it touches is softened, turned to sparkle,
turned to shine. A disruption, to be sure,
but sometimes it takes a blizzard
to find the calm. Sometimes
we must be stopped
before we learn how to go on.
And the colder it gets, the more
we must work to be warm.
One Sitting on the Porch
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, forgiveness, melting, poem, poetry on December 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Perhaps This is Forgiveness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, poem, poetry, softness on October 5, 2017| 6 Comments »
Again this morning
the invitation to be soft,
to notice how when we wake,
the cage of thorns that sprang up
yesterday is not now here.
It takes only just one thought of blame
or righteousness, and the thorns
return in all their ferocity
and brandish their barbs,
and flaunt their hooks,
but there is this moment
when we can simply notice
how soft we are, how vulnerable,
and choose to stay that way,
and a moment later, choose again,
oh, the morning, it smells like freedom.
I’m Not Saying We Shouldn’t Be Angry
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anger, forgiveness, Inuit, poem, poetry, walking on September 12, 2017| 89 Comments »
I’m not saying we shouldn’t be angry.
Anger seems reasonable. But perhaps
we will do what I’ve heard the Inuit do—
spend the emotion on walking, walk a line
until all the anger has left our bodies.
The moment the Inuit notice the anger is gone,
replaced, perhaps, by sadness or fear,
compassion or just a quietness,
they mark that spot with an object
to show the extent of their anger.
And perhaps, if we’re lucky, when we walk
this way, it will be a long enough walk
that we arrive at each other’s doors,
object in hand, and when the object
leaves our grip, we’ll be able to use our hands
to greet each other, touch each other’s faces,
point to the horizon to all the other places
we might choose to walk now together.
Like Forgiveness, Like Happiness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, gardening, happiness, poem, poetry on May 31, 2017| Leave a Comment »
After the frost,
the sweet peas
rise from the dirt
like little green angels
with bowed heads
and tiny green wings—
it’s enough to make
a woman believe
small miracles can happen
if only she plants
the seed.
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