Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘wonder’

Wonder

I wear my wonder
like old running shoes—
not elegant,
not sophisticated,
surprisingly inappropriate
in certain rooms. 
I notice how others 
sometimes wrinkle their noses
at a blatant sporting of wonder, 
thinking, perhaps, I must be oblivious
to the dress code:
stilettos of apathy,
high heels of indifference,
boots of cool reserve. 
But dang, this wonder
gets me where I need to go
every inch, 
every mile, even 
across the room.
When everywhere I step
is broken glass,
wearing this wonder
is the only reason
I can move at all.

published in ONE ART: A journal of poetry

Read Full Post »

Getting Ready

What might you need to let go of or “clean out” in order to make room for wonder or joy?

—Kayleen Asbo, Advent and the Arts: The Week of Hope

Just today I walked

in the shadows

and noticed how

they scrubbed me

the way silence sometimes

scrubs a room.

Wonder rushed in.

It wasn’t that I was trying

to keep wonder out,

it’s just that with my schedule

and rigor, I hadn’t left it

space to enter.

If only with mop

and broom I could sweep

out anything

that would keep me

from wonder, from joy.

Instead, the world offers

shadow, stillness,

quietude, loss,

and a red-tailed hawk

in the heart,

circling, circling,

wondering what

it might subtract next.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

It appears still, the crescent moon,

but it’s moving at 2,288 miles per hour,

its light reaching us in less than two seconds.

 

This morning, we marvel at it, as if

we’d never seen moon before, its light

somehow touching us newly.

 

And though we are dashing down

the highway at fifty-eight miles per hour,

watching the moon, I feel something

 

in me quiet and still. Years ago, a friend told me

it was time to stop writing moon poems.

How to stop when each time

 

we see the moon, something new in us rises

to meet it? May we always write moon poems,

whether or not anyone reads them.

 

May we always marvel at the light

and shadow so far past our reach

and yet travelling with us

 

every day, every night. May it always feel

important, like hope, impossible to touch

and so real, so true.

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

One Continuation

 

 

returning from the journey,

as if the return isn’t also

a journey—

as if this journey called home

isn’t also riddled with wonder, surprise

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

wind so strong

the only part of me unwhipped

is my wonder

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

clinking my glass

with god—a toast

 

to the little green leaves

beneath the dead brush—

 

neither of us is surprised,

but dang, ain’t it grand

Read Full Post »

One Rattling

 

 

 

at the gates of wonder,

begging to be let in, not knowing

we are already there

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

pages dog eared

and spine broken, this old book

holds no less wonder

Read Full Post »

fairy house on the san miguel

Will it work? says the girl,
when I hand her the magic dust
to sprinkle on the fairy house we’re building
out of sticks and stems and rocks.

Why wouldn’t it work? I say, dropping
more of the tiny red weed seeds
into her open hand. She doesn’t argue with me then,
only keeps her hand extended so I will sprinkle

more magic dust into her palm.
I can tell she doesn’t totally believe me.
I can tell that I wish she did. Oh the sad advent
of being purely practical. I am open

to believing improbable things.
I am tired of math and the same problem
never adding up. I could use a little magic.
I don’t mind if I need to make it up myself.

Read Full Post »

IMG_1720

Gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
—G.K. Chesterton

Standing in the field of golden blooms
it is easy to feel happiness. So bright,
after all, and such an abundance! Oh yellow!

Yellow all nodding and splayed! And then, well, happy
of course, because it is not my yard, and dandelions
are undeniably weeds. You know, the rubbery leaves.

The way they squeak underfoot when you walk.
The way that after a week or two they turn into gray seed
and proliferate successfully, as weeds do. It’s harder then,

once all the white wishes are spent and the hollow
stems stand naked and dull, harder to believe
that the pilgrims brought them to this land on purpose.

So many things are just this way—vibrant
for such a short season. But don’t fast forward. Admire
how they grow almost everywhere, from the Arctic Circle

to sub-Antarctica. That alone is cause for wonder.
Today, couple wonder with gold, miles and miles
of golden sway, and that, my friends,

makes for this curious tide of gratitude that rises
out of who knows where in the body and makes us want
to run out into the field and become the field

and wade in the gold and weave ourselves into the current.
Who could believe in a clock? Who could believe
there is anything to do in this moment but meet it and play?

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: