The Way We Love Something Small

 

The translucent claws of newborn mice

this pearl cast of color,

the barely perceptible

like a ghosted threshold of being:

here     not here.

The single breath we hold

on the thinnest verge of sight:

not there     there.

A curve nearly naked

an arc of almost,

a wisp of becoming

a wand__

tiny enough to change me. 

--Kimberly Blaeser

The Question

 

All day, I replay these words:

Is this the path of love?

I think of them as I rise, as

I wake my children, as I wash dishes,

as I drive too close behind the slow

blue Subaru, Is this the path of love?

Think of them as I stand in line

at the grocery store,

think of them as I sit on the couch

 with my daughter.  Amazing how

quickly six words become compass,

the new lens through which to see myself

in the world. I notice what the question is not.

Not, "Is this right?" Not,

"Is this wrong?" It just longs to know

how the action of existence

links us to the path to love.

And is it this? Is it this? All day

I let myself be led by the question.

All day I let myself not be too certain

of the answer. Is it this? I ask as I

argue with my son. Is it this? I ask

as I wait for the next word to come.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

[David and grandson Killian deep in conversation].

Future

 

I can't see my future clearly.
It's a wash of color and light.

Maybe a glimpse of a house

with wood floors, the death

of a parent, a dog, a cat, a love,

but nothing certain.  I like its fog.

Inevitably something will happen, pieces

will fall into place if I keep breathing

and I'll eat, I'll work, I'll learn

and know and forget.  There'll be

another bowl full of berries, a hot cup

of tea, additional travel and sorrow.

There'll be a clean pair of pants,

the sun's good glow, a cut and blood,

a hole to dig, a bath to take, a mistake to mend.

What lies ahead is a promise

standing in shadow, one second

pasted to the next.  I don't need to call it

by name. A riddle ensues, a song of guessing,

a vow of risk. The road becomes itself

single stone after single stone

made of limitless possibility,

endless awe.

-- Jacqueline Suskin

[Foggy morning at Gale Meadows Pond in Londonderry, VT].