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Posts Tagged ‘paying attention’

 

 

 

 

Today I woke in the dark and was busy

making lunches during the sunrise,

though surely it happened. And I drove

 

in the low morning light along

the San Miguel River for half an hour,

not once noticing the color of the water,

 

the scent on the banks, though past

experience leads me to believe

that there were thousands, millions,

 

of tiny beautiful miracles happening

there in that half hour alone. How much

beauty is lost on me every day, every moment?

 

Though as I stepped out of the car

to walk into work, I saw, stuck to my boot, one

brilliant orange aspen leaf outlined in gold,

 

and for a whole minute, I stared at it,

marveled at its symmetrical veins,

its delicate stem, the astonishing intricacy

 

of its edges. How easily gloriousness finds us, sticks

to us even. How wholly available, this art

of meeting the glittering, luminous world.

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Eventually

 

 

 

Not until the darkness came

did I hear the river, the insistent

 

clear of it. All the bright day

I had listened to the ding

 

of the timer, the ring of the phone,

the whine of the boy and the sob

 

of the girl, the scrabble of kittens,

the turn of engines, the click

 

of my shoes, the printer’s gray hum.

And then, once the dishes were done

 

and the boy was asleep and

the girl was asleep and the phone

 

was off and the lights

were out and I lay in the patient

 

dark, I heard it, the changing flush

of the river’s rush, which surely

 

had been there all day, the river

doing what a river does—moving

 

over whatever stands in its path

and turning each obstacle into song.

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staring at the moon

until it becomes a door

I walk through

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Everything’s a gong now—

the clang of the spoon in the mixing bowl,

the growl of the water rushing in the pipes,

the ding of the microwave’s timer,

the crow—

what isn’t an invitation to show up,

to offer the moment all our attention—

scent of pizza, barking dog, lawn mower,

sweet rose tea, that voice in my head,

the chime of the changing light.

 

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it’s not that I’ve never

seen a walking stick,

more that I’ve never noticed

I’ve seen a walking stick—

this rising urge to watch you

tie your shoes, hold a pen,

light a fire.

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did it just start to
sing, that brown bird, or did I
just start to listen?

*

a night of fretting,
but the day comes in with a
cartwheel

*

that letter so much
more precious now that I
have lost it

*

once I took all the
books off the shelves, God arrived
with a blank page

*

today
the leaf just
a leaf

*

no pillow tonight!
the poem just grabbed a drum
and crooked its finger

*

but I don’t know how
to fly, I said, and God said,
start by falling

*

still cupped in my hands
this song hummed to me
seven years ago

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