Dinner, the sun setting, multiple currents swirling around,
pulling us, leaving us feeling torn between elation
at being alive and melancholy from the inkling that
we’ve been given tickets for the winding down of the world.
The angels are homeless tonight,
waiting for humanity to wake up,
to see the invisible writing on the wall,
feel the messengers around us,
helping us be true to a vision of grace
which we know exists inside.
I don’t have a face—one available to my vision, anyway.
Others see me, but I am in the dark
and have to uncover an image from the inside.
A picture emerges momentarily, then fades again—
waiting until the carousel’s next time around
to dig a little deeper into who I am.
He had strayed from the path just a bit too far,
and now found himself in odd, unfamiliar surroundings.
Yet his heart was also buoyed by a feeling
of being enveloped, protected even,
as he proceeded on some necessary mission—
but one whose goal was unknown, unknowable.
Cracks in the psyche expand, then contract.
We need to see what repairs them,
and what leaves them open—exposing
their inner workings to air, to the bustle around us—
when what they need is sanctuary,
stillness, in order to heal.
He stood in the courtyard at Buchenwald,
reciting every poem he could recall. Men gathered
around him, hearts opening like the beaks of baby birds,
murmuring, weeping, his words their lifeline.
The tender-hearted woman gently probes
beneath the surface of her life, gingerly extricating
shards and their surrounding circumstances.
Like an expert surgeon, she must be careful
to remove them without hooking onto
delicate tissue, too easily torn.
Like going to the theater with a loved one,
can I accompany myself from one moment to the next?
First, a simple ‘being with,’ then the quiet
dissolution of internal walls, barriers to being,
erected in the distant past for unknown purposes.
No security, no final answers, no assurances
of what will be found there, just an endless unfolding—
yet worth bearing anything, as long as we are arm in arm.