The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment, to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.
—Thich Nhat Hanh
Today the miracle is to sit
in the sunlit room and be
in the sunlit room,
to be here and only here,
here in the bountiful silence,
here in the shifting shadows,
here in the hands of midwinter,
not in this same room five years ago,
but now as the tulips
drop the soft curls of their petals
like lingering pink praise.
So seldom in these grief ridden days
do I feel a feeling so pure
as this peace that arrives
on the low-angled light
when I am quiet and still
and the world invites me
to show up for whatever
slim warmth there is, and
know it is enough.
Posts Tagged ‘warmth’
Apricity
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged miracle, presence, stillness, warmth, winter on January 22, 2022| 12 Comments »
Cutting Down the Christmas Tree
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, grief, loss, warmth on December 15, 2021| 8 Comments »
Every step through the deep snow
of the field, I noticed your footprints
not there beside your dad’s, your sister’s
and mine. I noticed the silence
when no one argued about which tree
was best. I noticed the hands
that didn’t hold the saw, the arms
that didn’t carry the tree. I think
you’d like to know we laughed
as the snow sifted from the high branches
and down our necks. And we chose
the most beautiful spruce. Tall.
It would have been about as old
as you. I wore your coat—the blue
with the orange lining. It kept me
warm. Though the shade was deep.
Though the cold reached in. Though
I knew it wasn’t really you warming me.
But it was.
Wish
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, warmth, wish on January 23, 2020| 2 Comments »
Perhaps because I am cold
I want to bring you warmth—
isn’t that how it goes?
We wish for each other
what we most want for ourselves.
And so I wish you real love,
the kind that is as familiar
as brushing your teeth, as spectacular
as the sky tonight drenching the world
in pink just before
the dark took everything.
A Passing Truce
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, fire, light, peace, poem, poetry, warmth on January 4, 2019| 5 Comments »
Beside the fire, inside
the dark, and lost amidst
the tide of thoughts,
there is a momentary warmth
that steeps into our every inch
and make us doubt
that we could ever feel
sharp cold again—
the mind, thus warmed,
forgets to quarrel and simply
nestles closer—and the dark itself
comes nearer by and we
lean in together.
Five Cents
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, generosity, parenting, poem, poetry, warmth on February 4, 2017| 2 Comments »
Finding by chance a buffalo nickel
my son decides to spend his fortune
on a girl he’s never met
who woke one morning
with cancer in her marrow—
he tells me he’s thinking
a lot about death,
and he’s scared,
and I tell him yes,
it’s scary.
Later, I look out the window,
and though there’s not a hint
of leaves on the trees outside,
I feel some certainty
about green and summer,
and I’m amazed at how
just when we think the world
could not get any colder,
we are reminded what even
a tiny bit of warmth can do.
Two for Warmth
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, warmth on February 29, 2016| 1 Comment »
the long bloom of my body
the long bloom of your body—
all night rearranging our stems
*
wondering why
the candle doesn’t give light—
never offering it flame
Watching the PBS Special on the Ice Age
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ice age, love, mammoth, objective, poem, poetry, warmth on July 8, 2015| 2 Comments »
Watching the PBS Special on the Ice Age
They are like tree rings, the tusks of the wooly mammoth.
The announcer explains how they show years of abundance
and years of scarcity. Even to a woman sitting on her couch
watching the NOVA special, the difference is obvious. Thick bands,
narrow bands. It all had to do with weather, says the voice.
Well, that is a simplification, but that’s basically what he says.
The last few years of this specific mammoth’s life were tough.
The announcer speculates many consecutive seasons of drought
or cold. I wonder what if the heart could show such trends.
What if the right camera lens or carbon test could show
which years of a life were full of warmth and love and which
were marked by chill? They are worth something, the tusks,
regardless how thick or thin the rings. They are valuable
just because they are what they are. And the heart, well,
I imagine the announcer, how he might say, “We can see
how in this season the environment was less favorable.”
And there would be no judgment in his voice. Not really
compassion, either. Just a well-modulated narration
of how things are. Sometimes it is difficult. Sometimes we thrive.
Yes, Everything
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, connection, ice skating, nature, poem, poetry, warmth on January 4, 2015| 5 Comments »
When we tug at a single thing in nature, we find it attached to the rest of the world.
—John Muir
and so when I tug at the blue green ice
that marbles the top of the river, it’s no
surprise to find it connected to those mornings
when I was a girl and the lake was frozen
and I could skate all the way to the middle,
could follow the cracks and skate so far
I could hardly see my small yellow house.
I would lay down, face to the ice, and feel
the way the cold rose up to sting my check,
feel the chill seep through my winter clothes.
I would roll over and stare at the white sky
and wave my arms and legs in the angel pattern,
though there was no snow. And I’d stay there
a long, long time. In this way, I learned
it is possible to be warm even held by the cold,
and tugging at this, it is no surprise
to find it connects to everything.
The Real Deal
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, warmth on October 5, 2014| 1 Comment »
no darling, I am
not like peaches that grow
sweeter with cold—
this woman needs your warmth,
I ain’t talkin’ flannel shirts
Not That It Will Work, But Still …
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged light, poem, poetry, summer, sun, warmth, what cannot be held on June 12, 2012| 2 Comments »
Sometimes midsummer the body
simply refuses to go inside. Though
reason would say to hide from the sun
midday, the body goes out anyway
to the garden, the orchard, the river,
the field and gathers warmth, as if
it could store this wealth of light, as if
one winter night it might from some fold
of pallid skin produce a secret radiant skein,
something fulsomely warm still smack
with peonies and wild mustard scent,
something not bitter and not at all slant
that we might wrap our shivering bodies in,
oh wheeling swallows, oh sun so high.