one more thing that doesn’t last—
this wanting things
to stay the same
Posts Tagged ‘impermanence’
Changling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, impermanence on September 4, 2025| 6 Comments »
Translation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged impermanence, language, permanence on October 31, 2024| 2 Comments »
Beyond words is the language
of leaf with its speckle and rustle
and moldering scent, is the language
of sunlight which even now burns
its praise into my wrinkling skin.
Is the language of cloud
with its unraveling syntax
that dissolves into unconjugatable sky.
Sometimes I can decipher
the secret tongue that whispers
its song into everything—
you are here, then you’re gone,
but you’re never really gone,
see, it’s all here, it’s all here.
The Fence Post to the Mist
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allegory, allowing, ephemeral, impermanence, mist on October 21, 2024| 11 Comments »
Show me again
how you do that trick,
the one where you roll,
where you lift,
where you disappear.
Saved
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, impermanence, Rilke, saved by a poem on September 28, 2022| 10 Comments »
Give me your hand.
—this epigraph, and all italic lines by Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Wild Love,” trans. by Joanna Macy
Tonight, again, I slip my hand into the hand of Rilke
and let him lead me into regions of beauty and terror.
Though I weep, though I tremble, he does not let go.
When I praise, he reminds me, No feeling is final.
There was a time, perhaps, when I did not believe
a poem could save my life. Now, I know.
If you could examine my cells, you would see
every single one of them has been tattooed
with his words. I use poems the way others
use a rope, a light, a crust of bread, a knife.
He whispers to me of impermanence.
Is it not the very fragrance of our days?
And yet, he seems to say, in the meantime
there is so much splendor to be made.
*Inspired also by correspondence with Luise Levy and John Mason
Journey of Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged advice, brain, grief, impermanence, Joi Sharp, journey, love, path, wisdom on February 22, 2022| 6 Comments »
with thanks to Joi Sharp
When my teacher told me
Everything we love can
and will be taken from us,
I did not know how she
was preparing in me
a synaptic path.
I understood her words
in the way one understands a journey
by reading a map.
Now, ten years later, with every breath
I travel this path of loss
as so many others have before me,
and yet there is no trail, no signposts,
no destination, and the path changes direction
from moment to moment.
But the path does not feel foreign.
Every turn of it is paved with truth—
Everything we love can and will be taken from us.
Those words now offer
the strange comfort of prophecy
as I wander these trails of impermanence,
stunned with gratitude even as I weep,
alive with loving what doesn’t last,
astonished by the enormity of love—
how love is the red thread that pulls us through,
not a thread to follow,
but a guide that never, ever leaves the path.
Sheer Truth of Impermanence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged clouds, dad, daughter, grief, illness, impermanence on November 17, 2021| 18 Comments »
My father lies in his hospital bed,
eyes unseeing, unable to do more
than open and close his hand—
a wounded bird trying to fly—
his thoughts too wispy
to gather into sentences.
And then, quite clearly,
What is wrong with me?
I tell him, We don’t know.
And then, Is it my fault?
I want to gather him
into my arms and cradle him
the way he once cradled me.
No, Dad, I say. It’s not your fault.
You’re doing so good.
And then he is lost again,
cloud-minded, moaning,
his face a storm of pain.
Outside the window, the clouds
have lost their shape. The wind
pulls their thin white veil across the blue
like a translucent sheet.
In the coming days, there will be rain.
His eyes flash open, then close.
Hi, he says, his voice warm,
full of marvel. Hi, I say,
press my hands to his chest.
I’m pouring love into you, Dad.
He hums the little two-note song
he always hums in affirmation.
He is so beautifully himself.
Then you’re going to need—
His thought evaporates.
What do I need, dad?
I’m desperate for his answer.
What do I need to pour love into you?
He says, You’re going to need—
The sentence turns cirrostratus.
I kiss his head.
I kiss whatever went unsaid.
Neither of us knows what we need.
We hold each other and reach
for what we cannot hold.
Hands open, we wing into the moment,
into love, this sky where we meet.
We Want to Believe We Can Live Forever
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forever, imperfection, impermanence, mortality on November 5, 2020| 6 Comments »
And if I can’t live forever,
then let me make the most
of this sliver of eternity,
these slender days I’ve been given
in the ongoing story.
Let me be recklessly curious
about what I will never know—
driven to dance with the secrets
of galaxy and spruce cone.
Just this morning, I wondered
what wake will I leave behind?
Let me be relentlessly kind.
Let me find peace
with the imperfect self.
Let me find love
for the imperfect world.
In my smallest moment,
let me lean into enormity.
If I can’t live forever,
let me at least believe in forever
and love the world
accordingly.
One Impermanence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blossom, impermanence on September 2, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Things I Can’t Pack When Coming Home After the Crestone Poetry Festival
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Crestone Poetry Festival, impermanence on March 1, 2020| 4 Comments »
Can’t bring home the Sangre de Cristos with me.
As if I need another mountain in my back yard—
but these peaks are different, somewhat softer,
somewhat closer, somehow new.
A photo isn’t the same.
Can’t bring back the strange jazz of Friday night
with its ancient clarinetist, its renegade bass.
Can’t bring the back porch where we drank tequila.
Can’t bring the bright howl of coyotes
heralding dawn. I would like to pack
the conversation Julie and I had
this morning, the one in which she shared
her unmet dreams. And the laughter
in class today when hope was plucked
like a chicken and made into soup,
and the way the clouds were strangely blown
across the morning sky. The dark red gourd
Wendy carried with her. Scent of pinion.
Sound of Rachel’s drum. We can’t bring anything with us, really.
A toothbrush, a change of clothes, some boots.
But nothing that matters. Nothing
that we most want to hold. Like the love
I feel for these people who gather
in small rooms to talk about poems. Like
the friendship that blooms when we dare
to know just how much we can never bring back.
After Six Days of Holding It Together
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, daughter, grief, impermanence, parents, poem, poetry, tears, vulnerability on July 25, 2019| 9 Comments »
It wasn’t until I had passed through security
and found my way into Concourse B
that I found myself sinking into a chair
across from a giant Vienna Beef poster
and began to weep. And once they began,
the tears wouldn’t stop. Nor did I try
to stop them. I had wondered in the ICU
where they were. Had wondered
again at my parents’ home. It was strange
to be so level—not cold, really, and not numb,
but oddly steeled. It was a relief, really,
to sob into my hands. To let grief take over.
To be a maidservant to fragility.
What a gift to be sideswiped with the truth
of our vulnerability. What a blessing
to be baptized in my own helplessness.
Over the loudspeaker, they announced
that a plane was delayed. As if any of us
really know when we’ll depart, when we’ll arrive.
When the tears dried, I stood. Walked
to my gate recalibrated. Called my parents
again because I could. Because I could.
In the window, I smiled at my watery reflection,
how it almost wasn’t there at all.