Posts Tagged ‘transformation’

You need a rainstorm.
            —Paula Lepp

I need a rainstorm
on the inside, the kind
that relentlessly pours,

the kind that rearranges
everything, leaves nothing
untouched. I need a deluge

that drowns out any voices
that would offer easy answers.
I need a cloudburst to flood

everything I think I know,
that carries me until I, too, am current.
Have I gotten so dry inside,

so brittle and sure?
Give me a gulley washer,
the kind that scours

and remakes its path as it flows.
I want it, and yet
when I feel the first drops

I scramble for the umbrella,
as if it would do any good.
There it is, petrichor—

earthy fragrance of change.
The big rain will come when it comes.
There will be no stopping it then.

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When it was a branch

on the cottonwood tree,

the driftwood never imagined

it could travel—

and now look at it, softened,

smoothed, riding the current.

Oh heart, what have you

yet to imagine?

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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.

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sitting with flowers in the garden

until I am

flower in the garden

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dancing in the downpour—

the same woman who an hour ago

didn’t want to get wet

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And again the world tumbles me

and again I emerge smoother, softer,

less sharp, less whole. Someday I will be

less solid, less myself, more a part of everything,

more a grain of sand that knows itself as one of many, easily

moved by the current, until finally, I

am less sand, more sea.

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for Heartbeat




the same song,


but this time

the melody

finds in me

a closed,

forgotten place

and sings light

into its tightness

until where

there were walls,

now wings


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Forgive me. I do not mean

to be sharp, stark, sterile.

I’ve read of the salt mines


at Salzburg, how if you throw

a stick, leafless and dead,

into one of the abandoned workings,


then return months later and pull it out,

it will be covered in crystals,

“a galaxy of scintillating diamonds,”


writes Stendahl, “the original

branch no longer recognizable.”

I want to be like that stick.


Take my winter soul

and throw it into the mystery,

though it’s dark and cold


and easy to get lost.

What knows how to attract

the light will grow, will change me


until I barely recognize myself.

I do not mean to be short,

but I hear it in my words.


Stranger things have happened.

What is dead is sometimes

a chance to find new life,


to become a thing shining,

something the same, only fresh,

a thousand times more brilliant.




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Slow roasted,

the beets

become tender,


how I long

to do the same

to these hard,

red thoughts.

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And when sorrow arrives for tea

and stains the table cloth

with its great mass of gray,

and when sorrow arrives

and drives everyone else away,

do not leave, alarmed though you are

by its slumping weight.

Offer your attentiveness.

See how it almost radiates?

There are myths in which monsters

transform into princes.

It always takes courage. And kisses.

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