Posts Tagged ‘stories’

At the Bookshelf

Today I touch the spines of the books
I have saved—run my hands over
shelves and shelves of poems
and stories and teachings and text books,
some I have never read, some
that have made a home in me.
I touch them as if to touch is to love,
as if the books themselves could feel
the enormous gratitude I have for the ways
their words have changed my life.
Touching them, I touch the days
I’ve spent curled up in couches and beds,
transported into other realms
of loss and belonging. I touch the longing
in me to be known, to be seen, to be heard,
to have a story worth telling, a story
worth living. I touch the fear that I am not enough,
and the hope that it is not too late
and the steadying pulse of the moment.
And the moment, generous as it is,
reaches out with its invisible hands
and touches me back, touches me here
as I stand by the shelves, touches
all the stories I tell myself, touches
the one who’s left as the stories fall away.

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that everyone, even the driver in the white jeep

who cut in front of you, yes, even

the elegant woman in the dairy aisle and

the man who seems lost on the library steps

and the child sitting alone on the bench, yes

everyone has a story—fears and hopes

and something to learn and someone they love

and someone who’s hurt them and someone

they long to hold. And though their stories

are mostly invisible, they’re always

more complex than whatever we project

and they’re every bit as real as our own.

The woman in the dairy aisle smiles at you,

and though she is wearing diamonds in her ears,

she looks lonely. Or is it you, who is lonely?

Is it all of us? All of us longing for someone

to truly see us. And that driver you’re cursing,

don’t we all sometimes feel as if we need

to move forward any way we can? And that

boy on the bench, notice the empty seat beside him?

Perhaps you could sit there, too, in the sun.

Who knows what might happen next?

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Four Revisions

oh foolish woman
still trying to build a castle
out of thoughts


add this to
the list of gratitudes,
another perfect sunrise


all this time
I thought I was blindfolded
my eyes were closed


when the glass slipper
does not fit, learning
the joy of bare feet

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Talking with Christie Till 2:45 a.m: Three Haiku

not every story
ends this way
the end


I wish, she says,
someone told me it doesn’t
get easier


on the driveway
finding ourselves
in the universe

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I drop
these stories
of who and how—
every barrier between us

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