Sometimes I forget that you
are already whole. I imagine
that I might fix you. I apologize
for this. It rises not from what
you’ve done, but from my lack
of grace. In the riverbed, look,
not a single rock is out of place.
In the field, every blade of grass
is exactly where it’s supposed to be.
I can tell myself this—but
I have not learned the art
of leaning into the world
exactly as it is. I make up exceptions.
I make up my rules. I think
I know something. And then
I trip on my certainty,
my pretty shoulds lose all their feathers.
Oh this practice,
it disarms us so perfectly,
this practice of loving each other.