It is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
The morning light peers across the horizon. The night has passed.
It is serious to be alive on this fresh morning.
Overnight, bombs have fallen. Overnight, children have wandered in search of their parents. Overnight, hunger continued to blanket a huge and ever growing swath of our world.
The broken is before us.
Can I help, can I help move toward a world that is safe and whole? To be whole and safe… can be done one person at a time, one neighborhood, one city. The only way to understand how this world became so fragile is to dive in.
Fresh and broken- a new day begins.
Last night, an owl
In the blue dark tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.
The World I Live In by Mary Oliver
“I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
reasons and proofs.
The world I live in and believe in
Is wider than that.
And anyway, what’s wrong with Maybe?
You wouldn’t believe what once or
twice I have seen.
I’ll just tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you ever,
possibly, see one.”
Praying by Mary Oliver
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.