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Posts Tagged ‘light’

One True Friend

 

for Michelle

 

 

dipping her spoon

into all the light of the day—

offering me the first bite

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One of the rooms

in the longest night

has an empty chair

and an open book—

and in the book

is an empty page

full of light—

if you read it

long enough

you might forget

what an hour is,

or night,

forget all stories

besides this one,

older than scripture,

where everything

is possible.

 

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One Example

 

 

 

the candle runs out—

knowing this, the wick

burns no less bright

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astonished how much light

can fill a note so dark—

singing it again, again

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Day of the Dead

for Babette

 

 

Out the window, a moonless dark.

Sometimes inside, it is moonless, too.

Then we come to realize

how we rely on things

outside of ourselves to see.

 

This morning, sitting in the dark

with my eyes closed, I wondered

about the turning year,

and two words came to me.

More love. More love.

Curious now I did not think to ask how.

The words seemed both mantra and map,

both question and answer,

all-encompassing as the dark.

 

Do you remember that day

we tore out of our clothes

and slipped into the frigid lake

in northern Wisconsin?

How we laughed as we swam

deeper and deeper in.

How dark the water,

how it dripped light from our arms

as we raised them to pull

through the surface.

 

I am again swimming in the dark.

Sometimes I feel the cold

is too much for me.

It helps now to remember

that it’s possible to find laughter

in cold waters. More love. More love.

 

Just yesterday, I was thinking

of the way Jesus turned water to wine.

It is no use to ask how.

The invitation is to accept the miracle,

praise the change and drink.

 

Perhaps in these moonless times,

this is when we learn to make light

out of dark, the way two stones

make a spark. Now, perhaps,

is not the time to ask who we are,

but what we can do.

Now is the time for miracles.

More love. More love.

 

 

 

 

 

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Go Ahead and Test It

 

 

 

next time it is overcast, gray

a little soggy and damp,

go for a walk, notice

how little light it takes

for the world to shine

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Making Light

 

 

Fumbling in the dark

with the matchbook

grateful my hands

are experienced

with making flame—

 

part of me fears

using them up

part of me knows

it’s what matches

are for.

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I like the way he leans over the paper,

the way he pulls the black ink

 

across the page, the matter-of-fact way

he says, “Like this, Mom,

 

only you don’t have to be afraid

to make mistakes. They usually turn out.”

 

I want to tell him

his life is like these trees—

 

that no matter how much

he thinks he’s messed up,

 

there is no blotch or line

that cannot be transformed

 

into an opportunity.

Instead, I say, “Show me

 

what to do next,”

and he shows me how

 

to shade the sides

with small quick strokes,

 

the dark lines holding

so much light.

 

 

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In the Darkness

 

 

 

rubbing ideas

together like sticks—

lucky to get a spark

 

but sometimes,

just noticing

the world as it is,

 

our attention

builds entire bridges

made of light

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On this gray, near-drizzling day

I write again this love letter

 

for the earth, which is, I suppose,

what all poems are, though they

 

disguise themselves as poems about

children or wine or baseball or snow.

 

On this longest night, it’s so clear—

the truest reason to write at all is to fall

 

more deeply in love with the world,

with its trees and its drizzle

 

and its stubborn shine and its

relentless hunger and its corners

 

that will never ever ever see the growing light.

Fall in love with the octopus that can detach

 

an arm on purpose and then grow it back again.

Fall in love with the elusive lynx

 

and the crooked forest and the frazzle ice

tinkling in the San Miguel River.

 

Fall in love even with this profoundly flawed

species that, despite all its faults,

 

is still capable of falling more deeply,

more wildly in love.

 

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