Posts Tagged ‘saying yes to the world’

When she opened the door,
she could not have known
how the winds would enter, too,
how soon the sands of loss
would blow across the hearth
until drifts filled every corner,
rising in every room,
rising until she knew
the door would never close again.
All she had wanted
was to let in the light.
She could not have known
how the sands of loss
would bury the shovel,
bury the broom,
bury even her will to believe
she could ever again
lock out the world.
How gently now they hold her,
these silken dunes she once
tried to exclude.
She curls into their drifts like a nest.
So easily now the moon enters
spilling shine across the sand.
No longer needing to knock,
it offers her all the light it has.

This poem was inspired by a work of art by fine art photographer Marisa S. White, “Drift into the Unknown.” BY THE WAY!!! (I wasn’t going to tell you about this yet, but what the heck!) … this image is also the cover art for my new poetry album (!!!) Dark Praise, 14 poems of “endarkenment” with amazing guitarist Steve Law. More on that soon. This image will be paired with another poem for the album, but when Marisa asked me to write a poem specifically for this image, how could I refuse!? It haunts me, this image–in the best way. 

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Just because the moss is exactly
the right color green and the spruce
are spaced just widely enough to let

the sunshine in, just because
the red strawberry leaves and purple
gentian are growing nearby, just because

it rained last night and just because you
have found them here before is no
guarantee that the mushrooms you want

to find are here this time. And they aren’t.
A voice rises in you, “But they should be here,”
and you find yourself arguing with the world.

Disappointment, I suppose, is the mother
of indignation. You could already taste them,
sautéed in butter, hearty and nutty and rich.

The absence feels unfair. You look again,
this time in the field. You look again at the edge
of the woods. You look again in the low grass

on the ridge. And find nothing except
your longing to find something that is not here.
You are still holding the basket, empty

except for two small brown bolete buttons—
they are the perfect size for eating,
only hardly enough to bother with.

Expectation has a bitter taste, one that seems
to only enhance a hunger. There’s a beauty
in noticing this—not that it makes the longing

go away, but somehow you see that this is just
another invitation to want exactly
what is happening—

the empty basket, the growing hunger,
the ground so wet, so full
of potential right beneath your feet.

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