And if I snap at you about the soap
in the wrong place or the toaster
not being put away or how we
are late, it is simply that I have forgotten
the inner spaciousness of everything.
I have forgotten the poem inside everything.
And if I mutter and pace and stiffen,
if I prickle and fuss and pout,
it is because I simply do not remember
how essential it is to let myself
be broken, how a sweet alchemy
is happening in me even now.
There are days when I lose sight
of how beautiful it is, this chance
to get things wrong, this gift
of making mistakes so that I might learn.
And all that I don’t yet know grows wings—
it will choose when and where it lands.
