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Posts Tagged ‘infinite’

In the Wing Dedicated to Heartbreaks

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 13, 2026| 12 Comments »


after reading “The Reassembly” by Isabella Nesheiwat
 
 
In the museum of the chest, I find
on a dusty back shelf my old favorite lunch box
with Hollie Hobbie’s picture raised
on one metal side, her big blue
bonnet covering all of her face.
The box is dented from where Donny,
a grade older, kicked it that day
when I walked the shortcut home from school.
He told me Holly Hobbie was for babies.
I arrived home feeling dented, broken, too,
embarrassed to be myself.
I run my fingers over the cool silver latch
and open the lunch box again.
Empty now except for the old story
I told myself about my unworthiness.
Instead of listening to the story,
I listen to the emptiness. Hear my heart
beating true in my blood warm chest.
The heart says, What is infinite in you
survives all brokenness.
I write these words in the dust
on the shelf beside the box.
The museum curator doesn’t chastise me.
She smiles at what I wrote. She nods.

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Noticing the Noticing

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on June 17, 2025| 6 Comments »


 
 
When I am most still,
there is something that holds me—
not a being, but a voice,
no, not a voice, but a transmission.
Not really a transmission, no, but a place
with gradations of color, almost like sky at dawn.
Well, no, not a place. More a placelessness.
A placelessness that holds me.
Yes. A placelessness. That holds me.
Or rather, a placelessness that is me.
And is also all that I’m not.
Oh, these words that try so hard to say something true.
They feel so small as they leave my mouth.
Like I’m tossing out tiny pebbles
into the pool of the infinite.
I stare at the tiny ripples they make,
in awe of their insufficiency.
Which is to say I’m in awe
of all that does not ripple.
With awe comes stillness.
The kind of stillness that invites me.
Invites me to notice how utterly I am held.

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Do you believe in always, the wind said to the rain

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on October 12, 2012| 8 Comments »

—poem on a line from e.e. cummings

Rubble, smoke, sparrow, stone,
she wakes in darkness all alone.

Angel, master, docent, thief,
she wears the scars of love and grief.

Furrow, honey, Chopin, moss,
those are veils that are her loss.

There’s more, there’s more to be undone—
milk, lattice, lily, plum.

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five

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on January 11, 2012| 3 Comments »

impossibly, there
is in me enough sky for
these great blue wings

*

in these dark halls
I wander the meadow
unfolding inside me

*

your
blossoming my
blossoming

*

you look so funny said
the goose, as I lurched to
avoid the puddles

*

lost, at last
now I can get on
with my life

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