Perhaps you, like me, find yourself yearning for spring. It is becoming harder and harder for me to appreciate the day, especially when that day promises sub-freezing temperatures. It a particular moment of bitter disgruntlement, the following poem emerged from the clutter on my desk.
Praise What Comes
Suprising as unplanned kisses, all you haven’t deserved
Of days and solitude, your body’s immoderate good health
That lets you work in many kinds of weather. Praise.
Talk with just about anyone. And quiet intervals, books:
that are your food and your hunger, nightfall and walks
before sleep. Praising these for practice, perhaps
you will come at last to praise grief and the wrongs
you never intended. At the end there may be no answers
and only a few very simple questions: did I love,
finish my tasks in the world? Learn at least one
of the many names of God? At the intersections,
the boundaries where one life began and another
ended, the jumping-off places between fear and
possibility, at the ragged edges of pain,
did I catch the smallest glimpse of the holy?
“praise what comes” from The Light of Invisible Bodies