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Posts Tagged ‘mystery’


 
 
ornaments for the galaxy
between bare cottonwood branches
hung by what great hand, the stars

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But now
what can I do
but marvel
as hope grows
like a seed
without soil,
putting down
roots despite
lack. And isn’t
that what hope
is—a sprout
that grows
when conditions
are poor,
as if to prove
that sometimes
potential
depends less
on what
surrounds us,
more on what
is living
through us.

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One Immensity


shrugging out of certainty
like a dress shirt too snug—
the sky fits just right

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Some Nights Missing You

is like the letter that doesn’t come,
the one I would carefully slit open
and slowly unfold,
then hold against my chest for a moment
before letting my eyes take in the first line,
the second, the penultimate, the last,
the letter that would explain everything
in language so plain
it would make my hands shake
with the truth of it,
the one that would arrive with a return address
so I would know where to respond if I dare,
the handwriting even, familiar, easily read,
with no pages missing, no passages indecipherable,
the letter that never once has arrived,
a letter I know only by its absence.
And the emptiness itself
becomes faithful.
And the mystery becomes
the only signature I trust.
 

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Inner Song

 
 
Perhaps you, too, have heard it,
despite the cacophony,
a song that rises in you—
a tune you’ve never learned
that somehow owns you
the way white owns winter,
the way breath owns
our lives. Perhaps you, too,
have marveled as the tune
spills forward, guiding you,
keeping you company
so that even when alone,
you know for certain
you are not alone.

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One Inside the Blossoming

 
 
though I tell you everything,
there is so much I don’t say—
the way an orchid
is nourished by shade,
the way silence is nourished by silence

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By now I know it’s impossible
to make someone else
fall in love with the world,
so when you say to me,
Look, Mom, the sky, it’s so beautiful,
and you stand there in the glow of sunset,
soft pink shining on your face,
I fall more in love not only with you
but with whatever it is
that opens us to wonder—
whatever grand mystery it is
that breathes warmth on our tight scales
and whispers to us, open,
then helps us get out of our own way
as one by one the petals unfurl,
and my god, the beauty,
the mystery, the beauty.

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The day after you died,
your dad and I stood
on a sidewalk in Georgia
and everything was strange—
I barely knew I was in a body.
I was so in my body.
The muggy air was unfamiliar.
With every sob, I pulled it
into my lungs and it became me.
What I remember:
The sound of airplanes.
The sweet scent of flowering trees.
There were no cars on the road.
It had rained and the night
had not yet come and there,
in the distance, a double rainbow.
I’m a logical woman. I know
what happens when sunlight
enters raindrops in front of me
at a precise angle of forty-two degrees.
And yet.
No one could ever convince me
it wasn’t you, you who had become
more spectral than flesh,
an optical illusion that doesn’t exist
in a specific spot, but, for any who look,
they cannot help but see the real
and radiant truth of it.
To this day, I remember how
those twin rainbows stitched me
back into the world, tethered me
to wonder, to mystery; connected me
to all I cannot understand.
Even now, there are drops falling
down my face. Perhaps, if the light
were just right, one might see
inside them something beautiful.

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Why I Stay Up Late




So gently the darkness
curls around the world,
first dusky, then dim,
then lushly black—
so generous, the way
it thickly spreads
the softest of songs
until silence silks
the empty streets
and velvets the vacant rooms—
even this riotous heart
inclines toward quietude

and whatever part of me
that knows something yawns
and the part of me
who falls in love
with mystery
leans more easily
into the ever-unknown

and I meet the starry
grand embrace,
speck that I am,
and marvel
at my insignificance,
marvel at how enormous
it is, this openness,
this gratitude.

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In the box from eBay,

a green crystal elephant

and not one clue

as to who might have sent it.

 

There are days

when I am amazed

by the goodness of people,

how we are marked by generosity

 

There are days

when I whisper thank you,

though I don’t know to whom,

and I revel in the mystery.

 

 

 

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