Reach, reach and grab, I am beseeched,
threading through splotches of green, spangles of gold,
river wind riffling through hair.
The command speaks to the wintered wait for
elixer of light and spell of flowers,
the proud trees a sprawl of architecture,
each call of a bird definitive, its brilliance
an arc that can overtake my mind.
But other powers capture the world,
and sow misery with seeds so harsh and bitter
they flame in the hand, the throat, the soul:
the dangerous grab reaches this ritual of spring.
Now between steps are prayers frail with words,
tiny balloons that rise, vanish.
In noon heat amid a cooperative of bees
comes this swell of grief.
What safety is a cloak of beauty?
How do I love the world and despise it?
How to open arms to watercolor sky as
storms crouch at the horizon?
Reach, grab life:
may a few burdens settle. I look outward.
An eagle couple observes from a high perch;
fisherman and child cast their lines once more;
a long boat is rowed by eight in deep rhythm;
a melody that arrived at dawn finds my lips,
escapes into bouquet of air, a shining thing.
Treetops wave as I pass.
The yellow of sun offers a mercy.
Reach. Hold on.