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Posts Tagged ‘possibility’

 

 

There are no barriers for a person with talent and love towards work.

            —Ludwig van Beethoven

 

 

Everyone knows Beethoven

went deaf, could hardly hear

by the time he composed

the Moonlight Sonata.

I think of him sometimes

when I want to believe

in impossible things.

Like great harmony

born out of dead silence.

Like love in full bloom

despite drought.

Like finding a pocket in time.

Like hope, growing like mint.

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There are darknesses in me,

places I would disregard.

Is it any wonder every year

I plant thousands of tiny seeds

and then wander the garden,

rooting for each as overnightly

they put up rows of tiny leaves.

How easily I forget what is possible.

 

 

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Never Mind It Was a Dream

 

 

 

because when the wise old man said

that the loving itself

was all that mattered—

somehow, for that moment,

while his suggestion still hung

like perfume in the air,

all the stubborn queries

of how and why and when

that usually knock and crack

and rap and ring, they all laid down

to take a nap,

and in that fragrant silence,

what rose was the most

beautiful tenderness,

a shining faith,

how improbably it opened

like a stone turned iris,

like a bone blooming

into spring.

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Reverie

 

 

In the pond, it is easy to let go of the paddle,

to let the wind move my little boat

wherever it will. I feel no need to change direction,

no sense that one way is better than another,

no attachment to arriving on any shore.

 

All around me, dragonflies skim bluely above the water.

Cotton drifts through the air like midsummer snow.

Robins sing their simple song. In this moment,

somehow unstitched from the calendar,

everything seems possible—like a woman

 

who feared she could not love could do so.

And a day could open in surprising ways,

new worlds spilling into this familiar world.

And a chapter could be written inside another

so that we would never, ever get to the end.

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anything is possible

but only one thing will happen—

tulip blooming on a dandelion stem

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A dozen dozen crystal balls

and not a one will tell us how

our story ends. Opaque as pearls,

they show us nothing of our world.

A dozen dozen crystal balls,

all of them unreadable.

And still we try. We want to know

just how the future will unfold.

Instead of crystal balls, my dear,

let’s try using a handheld mirror.

Or better yet, a windowed room.

Or better yet, some hiking shoes.

Let’s see what is unfolding now

and join it in its opening.

Already much more is possible

when we don’t know where we’re going.

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You never really recover.

That’s what the woman told me

her friend had said.

We were talking about

eating disorders.

There’s no way to make

that line sound poetic.

Her friend ran a program

at a hospital for other women

with eating disorders.

Her friend knew the subject personally.

I remember, I told the woman,

when I believed the same thing.

Until one day, it happened.

I just didn’t know

it was possible because

for so many, many years

it hadn’t happened to me,

though I tried, I tried.

Whenever it happened,

there were no fireworks,

no symphonies, no ecstatic dance,

no revelations written in clouds.

No rhapsody, no reveille, no

parade, no streams of light.

It happened so quietly I didn’t notice—

not for days, weeks, perhaps months.

Now I lean in when I hear myself say never.

What a fine time to get very curious.

What a fine time to get very quiet,

even quieter than that.

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Between the moth wing

and the fire,

between the river

and the road,

between the moon

and what we’re told,

between loss

and a kiss,

there is this sense

that anything

might happen—

a wound, a word,

a wondering,

an opening

to the world

just as it is.

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I would like to find you
in the shade of an apricot tree
with rounded white petals
caught in your hair
and the hypnotic humming
of bees in our ears,
and we would lie there
draped in the scent
of warm sage and sweet bloom
and stare up at the blue
through the flowering limbs
and forget who we are
for just long enough, perhaps,
that anything could happen.

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in the night air
scent of rain
that does not fall—
sometimes in the kitchen
scent of tenderness

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