Imperfect gifts

I always thought myself,
‘don’t hedge your muffins.’

But I never said the words,
rather a simple thank you.

Full expression,
never said.

Warm, or not. Perfect, or not.
a simple gift, to be enjoyed regardless.

Often appreciated,
early in the morning, outside.

Before the world awakes,
while the birds serenade.

And the wind chime
reverberating in the background,
gently welcomes the day.

As the sun comes to,
and darkness fades.

Fresh berries, or not this time,
last season’s summer crop.

Overcooked, undercooked,
never wrong, but rather different,
unique each time.

So it is with all our gifts,
though often unnoticed to ourselves.

We aim for the perfect muffin,
while missing the full value of our gifts.

The gifts we give,
but mostly, ourselves.

In a world

In a world of places & people,
known not so long ago.

We had everything we needed,
at least we thought so.

We ran & went & busied & did,
we consumed, we bought, we stored, we planned,
never imagining the coming storm.

Idolatries, identities, futures, and health,
everything that seemed so certain, vanished in moment.

Inside, the only place left to go,
our homes, if we’re lucky. ourselves, if we’re able.

Where everything hides that is important,
the only things known, sure amid uncertainties.

The only place to find that which matters,
in a world anew, unlike any we’ve ever known.

But in that place inside lies hope & peace embedded,
the quiet for distracted minds, the focus for anxious times.

Hidden, yet available to all,
if only we seek and still.

fear & uncertainty

*it’s fast approaching a year since i’ve written here, mostly because my mother’s death disrupted my heart and world in every way; now, the Coronavirus has turned everything upside down, for everyone.

we may not know what tomorrow shall bring,
so today, we live inside. distanced.

fear, shouting loudly everywhere,
unknowns, uncertainties.

birds feed, unknowingly,
blossoms bloom, uncaring.

a new world, we will face,
together, I hope.

yet it’s too early to tell,
amid the turmoil and chaos.

economics, as we know them,
uprooted, pulled and left behind.

minds, fearful and afraid,
hearts, ripped apart and broken.

worldly dreams, destroyed,
wallets & accounts, nearly empty,
sleep, needed but elusive.

worlds, separated,
situations, similar yet different.

but the birds still sing, unknowingly,
while we flutter in our minds.

* untitled, unfinished

A room, and then another,
while the nurses come and go. To where, unknown.

Monitors beep. Blink. Interruptions of this time,
forever stamped in our minds.

Another hallway, to another room,
yet remembered differently, individually.

Hurried, without rush, the moments passing slowly,
with every clock’s tick.

Peace grows from one to the next
Slowly, in its sinking.

* initially written during a workshop held by John Sibley Williams on the Poetry of Place at the Sandy Library.

Holding Up

Condolences come, with questions
   concerns, from places of love.

asked, we think, in best intention
   answers, truly, reveal the heart's place

but never answered fully, after some time
   too heavy, too weighing

'ok,' we say, lacking depth
   'fine,' I say.

As grief settles...

Tomorrow, never near.
   Loss, never imminent.

Handled like an unknown storm,
   Logically, ever approaching.
   Emotionally, distant and far.

Death, crushing, here, now,
   The path unknown, yet we walk.
   Taking steps darkly, focused.

When grief settles, unsettlingly,
   Seemingly isolated, yet permeating.
   Whispy, unreachable, while everywhere.

All is frozen; a defined before and after,
   Held tightly in time.
   So fast, quickly in the moment,
   Slowly in retrospect.

Here. Gone. Somwhere between.
   Always.

Meadow's Mourning

The horse sighs in the meadow,
   The meadow of my mourning.

How is it that I can see it everywhere out there,
   But when I look for it within it's never nearly as clear.

I write it, seek it, but it cannout
   Be found though trying.

Only by resting into a place of peace and quiet will it come,
   For it cannot be sought.

So I quiet and wait and expect,
   but that, again, quite looks like effort.

Through it's letting go and release,
   The only way into mourning's meadow.
 

Photo by Omar Prestwich on Unsplash