When it comes to this-
dark diamonds of grief glinting
in the melee of the world–
there is little left to say.
So I take my self north to more land,
and listen for its secrets.
Well of sky opens, a depth of blue
that can drown or nourish.
Earth lays its rough-edged silk
to the wound that bleeds inward.
The pond releases frog-moss-leaf breath as
heron’s wings disperse a mist of light,
glimmering blue that turns sorrow
into an iridescence.
And I come to the tree that spreads its beauty
about birds, insects, old, old dirt.
Four hundred years here, a white oak.
A giant broken, bent and lustrous,
anchored still for what may come.
She offers branches, knows the hollows I inhabit.
I sit in the sunshine waiting for God.
Her majesty sings a rhythmic hum
and the universe echoes:
tap and release, crack and spill,
sigh, shudder and bow.
I lean against her creaking strength
as even children do, bereft of nothing.
I lean into
what is left
when it comes down
to only this.
I sit in the sun with God.
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