Not Because the Mystics Say So but Because I Have Noticed Myself

Only in silence can the truth of words be distinguished, not in their separateness, but in their pointing to the central unity of Love. All words, then, say one thing only: that all is Love.
—Thomas Merton, Love and Living

In one week, the cottonwood trees
went from knotted gray carcasses
to flourishing globes of abundant green.
And the lilac bush went from abundant green
to ecstatic purple perfume.
Why should we doubt that in one week
the heart might do the same—
that with no words to feed it, no touch
to thrill it, just silence to frame its beat,
it might out of separateness learn to love
more deeply, more fully, seven times more sweet.

Advertisement

Today there was not enough
of your voice, not enough
of your taste, and too much wishing
that today might be something
besides today.

192–Less

ponder—is it that what i see is too big or

is it just how i see a psychic gift in this

world of provable science scoffing at

what is unseen lost because we can’t

see with the other eyes hear what isn’t

sound

ponder—what would i change? is there

anything i could do better by being less

myself easier to work with? do you

create that which you have a hard time with?

is it because there is so much more or

is it because i’m such a malcontent?

ponder—i’d rather be creating something

no one has ever seen. why bother to keep

on doing what’s already been done? unless

of course it works and leaves us all free

to dance more or travel to Brazil or

see our grand children every single

month of the year

this one small self enjoys that great

vastness of so many small selves

buzzing around on this planet

think i’ll just enjoy the variety

and let the vast white universe

see to all the rest ah rest yes

less pondering

No Words, No song

Sometimes the mouth is too empty.
A vacant lot. A cavernous core.

A place where grackles might land,
find it too barren, and fly away.

There are many things left to say.
There are many things left to leave unsaid.

There are many pieces of sugared ginger
waiting to find our lips.

And still this gnash of loss.
And still this long skein of missing you.

The night goes from vast to vaster.
The self gets so very small.

Nothing can fill this void.
Nothing spreads its wings.

And we are not the same as we were before,
but the mouth is too empty to speak of these things.

Not the Same Anymore

Not the Same Anymore

So we live in a world of questions.
And wind. The wind, the wind, the restless wind.
The wind does not wonder where it is going.

Meanwhile the garden leaps up through last year’s dross.
Hen and chicks push green through moldering leaves
and the yellow crocus does what it yellowly does—

soft despite chill. Soft though it drives
though winter’s crust. The crocus does not
ask questions. It softly does what it softly does.

Inside me, a fear of what is blossoming.
Inside me, the blossoming anyway.
I have tried to subvert it, uproot it, weed it,

the blossom more open day after day.
I have tried to render it dust.
Still this blossoming, this blooming despite.

And the why of it, I do not understand.
And the how of it hurts and heals.
And the what of it is so beautiful,

and the where is so deep I cannot measure it all.
So I live with the questions and meanwhile
I walk in this wind and try to praise,

to be content with this bouquet of answers,
so beautiful, so fragile.

191-I Can Fly

i dream of flying second day in a row

this time as before i wake knowing that

it is something i do, not believing i don’t

know how in waking life just to let myself

rise a little above and float close to what

is going on everywhere i am convinced of

this even now many hours later after not

finding my wallet for two days, after missing

a lecture i really wanted to hear after

cooking Tandori chicken for dinner

after washing the floor and making

the bed i still know i can fly