I’m in a cupboard, peeking into the light.
If you looked, you’d see my eye,
and I’d see you.
All of you.
Even your well worn Volleys.
Especially those.
White.
(Not so white at all.)
I’d smile, but you’d not know it.
All you’d see is my eye, remember this.
Here, in this cupboard, it is warm.
It is warm,
and I see you.
I always did see you.
I knew it would take me there. To the place beyond everything, the place that shows me, really quite beautifully, who I truly am.
I can’t remember the last time I watched Legends of the Fall. A very long time ago. A lifetime ago, you might say, and if you did say that I wouldn’t argue with you. I last saw the movie before I had truly lived. Before I had truly ached. Before I had truly felt loss, and the echoing stillness of life’s fragility.
Last night I watched the movie through new eyes, and it tore me apart. Very beautifully, it tore me apart, but it tore me apart all the same.
It reminded me of the depth and softness of who I am.
It reminded me of the beauty of the human connection.
And it reminded me why I write: to feel and to help others feel, too.
Thank goodness I watched that movie, last night.
Thank goodness.
We are the poets.
The ones who listen to the bones of the earth.
The ones who feel the wind,
who know the wind,
who are the wind.
The bridge to the aching quiet.
We build it
and we travel its winding path,
searching for more than what we see,
the poets.
We are the poets.
We are the song of aching life.
It is a beautiful thing
to know love.
To feel it
burning,
aching,
glowing;
how I have known love
is as small as an hour born
of its grand, magnificent day.
I have loved in many ways.
Is there a garden I am yet to find?
A moment still to spring
upon the delicate plough of yesterday?
I am certain there is more to come.
I shall wait for it by the gate
where the red roses wither
and the daffodils wake
in sweet tufts
of two.
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