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Posts Tagged ‘proof’

For a Moment

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 21, 2022| 16 Comments »


It’s the kind of night I wish for a firefly.
The fact that they don’t live here
doesn’t stop me from wishing.
Is it so wrong to want some small proof
of light in the darkness?

What I really want? Proof of miracles.
Proof of life beyond life.
Oh world, you’ve given me proof.
And I want more.

Perhaps it would be more poetic
if I could find my own bioluminescence—
even a metaphoric inner light.
Instead, I find my own wanting.
Hello wanting.
Hello wishing for something that isn’t here.

Because there are no fireflies,
I conjure the memory of fireflies.
Because there are no fireflies,
I sit in the darkness—how vast it is.
How full of dignity. How humbling.

I sit in the darkness until the darkness
scrubs me of me, until the darkness
feels like a proof for miracles,
until infinite space rushes in,
until for a moment
I forget how to wish for anything but what is.

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Proof

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 18, 2022| 6 Comments »




So insistent
the apricot petals
press against
the winter buds
to emerge
first white
then pink,
like millions
of tiny proofs
for hope:
somehow
the softest
parts of us
struggle and
swell against
the hardened shell
of I can’t
and open
anyway.

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Driving to Work on a Monday

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on May 2, 2017| Leave a Comment »

Beside the highway,

the willows are beginning

to find their green

and the dandelions

have begun to spell

their golden praise

across the ground.

What more did I think

I needed today?

Some proof that things

do not fall apart?

Let me surrender

to beauty, brief

as it is, the melody

that plays beneath

all other melodies.

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Living by Water

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on June 30, 2013| 1 Comment »

If you dig deep enough
anywhere on this land
you will eventually hit water.
It is hard to believe this,
looking at the field with its tall grass
and mullein leaves and globes of salsify.

It is so human to want some proof,
to grab the shovel and dig up the earth
so that dirt covers the daisies, the grass.
Then they’re buried and dead, but at least
we know, our shovels wet, that it was true.

Sometimes I wish I had the scalpel
that could cut into to me to find you,
you the river who moves
through my life, clear and continuous,
immeasurable, surprising, unseen.

But what would it prove that I do
not already know: That we die
without water. That the field
is a good place to kneel, to pray.

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