How Perfectly

It has been far too long since I took the time to write. I stopped and read through some old journals this weekend and my soul felt like it took a deep inhalation. And I could feel the blue oxygenation in my blood. Doing it’s good, sweet body work. Life is altogether too busy to write, let alone to write poetry. But how I miss it. How I miss getting messy with art and with words. Perhaps it is too busy not to. 

Just now, I took a deep breath, my shoulders loosened, my brows un-furrowed and I sat a little deeper, just at the little act of stopping my mad phone to fb to phone to planner to charts to email to phone scitter scatter. I stopped to read a few lines of poetry. Poetry opens up space for us- a phrase I have been loving lately. The world begins to get very small when we are frenzied and muddled and task-oriented and producing producing producing. Without really ever looking up. From the typing keys and the screen in front of our faces and the next meeting and the next thing on the to-do list. Space is the sweetest gift we can offer ourselves and others in those moments. Poetry does just this for me. Poetry is coupled frivolity and distilled significance that opens up space for our true selves to drink a cold glass of water and feel the fresh breeze on our faces. To gain awareness that maybe it’s been there all along.

How Perfectly

How Perfectly 

and neatly

opens the pink rose

 

this bright morning, 

the sun warm 

on my shoulders,

 

its heat 

on the opening petals.

Possibly

 

it is the smallest, 

the least important event

at this moment

 

in the whole world. 

Yet I stand there,

utterly happy. 

 

Well said, Mary Oliver. Well said. 

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