How can we find words for “everyday mystery” these days? And I mean in ways beyond all the old religious constructs. They may no longer ring true for you. They may feel tired, or loaded, or may trigger you in whatever ways. Poetry is one possibility.
You can’t know what I have to share
unless I tell you. I know,
I know it’s fraught, the spiritual,
no way to cross that threshold with anyone
who hasn’t opened—or who has closed
for whatever reason—
that door. No way
to offer that wine.
Or is there? Is a baby’s breath enough,
or a dew-covered tomato shining
through viney profusion
in the backyard next to the fig tree
spilling its jewels?
Because those moments do come,
like sudden lightning that clears the field
and jolts our hearts, too,
that meet their mark.
Words and moments that matter.
What will I see, feel, know,
offer, and be fed by today if I watch
closely, present to the mystery
in everything? The question
thrills me. And
that matters, too.