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Posts Tagged ‘holding’

What the Sky Knows

Before the feast,
I slip outside
into the rose glow
of evening and
talk to my loves
who no longer
walk this earth,
and I thank them
for being in my life
and I cry and cry.  
How is it possible
at the same time
to hold so much grief
and so much gratitude?
And the sky holds me
and the rooftops, the
streets and the fields,
the factories and forests,
it holds it all, holds
what is most beautiful,
holds what is most foul.
It doesn’t try to change
anything. Like that,
it seems to say
as it turns a deeper
rose. Like that.

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While I Could

We arrive empty handed, and leave empty handed. So then, how do we want to spend the time in between?
            —Nimo, Empty Hands Music


For a time, I held
him. Before he
could walk, before
he could stand,
before he could
speak, I held
his full weight
in my hands.
Day became night
became day became
night became day
and I held him
and rocked him
and soothed him
and bathed him
and cradled
his beautiful face.
It didn’t last.
It never lasts.
But before he could run,
before he could
fall, before
he could choose
what I never
would have chosen for him,
I held him.
Oh, this gift,
to know the heft
of his life, to have been
the one—though
never again—
to have been the one
for a time, sweet time,
to hold him.

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Down by the river we sit and talk.

When I think I can’t ache any more,

the world serves more heartache.

And I meet it.

I say no, but I feel myself stretched

by some great invisible hand,

rendering me spacious enough to hold

what must be held.

When we rise to leave,

the river doesn’t stop.

Nor does the forgiving wind.

I swear I feel them move

right through me.

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Tonight I Want to Hold You

the way the hand holds the mug,

the way the mug holds the tea,

the way the tea holds the leaves,

the way the leaves hold the sun,

the way the sun holds everything

the way everything eventually

lets go.

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Holding Patterns

 

 

 

It’s not patience

that makes the cup

hold the tea, it’s

simple practicality.

Not love that makes

bowl hold ripened fruit.

But it is patience

that holds the phone

and says I miss you.

It’s love that doesn’t

hold at all.

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Three Transpositions

 

 

 

 

is it one small child

or the whole world

I cradle

 

*

 

this longing

to bring you a small bouquet

of possibilities

 

*

 

my limbs a clef,

I circle the changing

song of you

 

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