How can we find language for everyday mystery these days? And I mean in ways beyond all the old constructs that may no longer ring true to us, constructs that may feel tired, or loaded, or that may trigger us 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 all loaded, the spiritual,
no way to cross that threshold with anyone
who hasn’t opened—or who has closed
for whatever reason reason—
that door. No way
to offer that wine.
Or is there? Is noting 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?
But then those moments 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,
contribute, and be fed by today if I watch
closely, present to the mystery
in everything? The question
thrills me. And
that matters, too.