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].

Only Love

 

"Only love is big enough to hold all the pain of this world." -- Sharon Salzberg

And so I imagine the entire earth

as one beating heart held in the space

of this universe, inside a larger body

we can't fathom, filling with enough

love to lead each of us out of the cave

of our personal pain and into the light--

enough love to lead all humans as one

out of collective fear, rage, and hate

into a place of peace that is found only

within our own hearts, beating in sync

with the pulse of this planet we were

born to inhabit, despite the daily storms

which overtake us and make us forget

we are the lifeblood pumped into these

veins, every particle of love we generate

running into rivers, lakes, and creeks,

evaporating into the air we breathe,

give back, and breathe again.

--James Crews

[Our son reading a favorite childhood story to his sons].

Merry

  

It’s a word which only comes out at Christmas.

 

As for the rest of the year,

it’s as if it has been packed away in the attic

with the decorations and the tinsel,

waiting for its own time to shine.

 

Rarely do we play well with it.

We do not let it loose for birthdays

or anniversaries; only in error does it intrude

on the happiness of a new year.

 

But at Christmas, it emerges blinking

into the light, red-cheeked and perky,

in a perfect state of mild inebriation,

writing itself into Christmas cards,

 

greeting friends on doorsteps,

embracing family before they take off their shoes,

warming strangers on icy pavements.

Merry Christmas, we say. Merry Christmas.

—Brian Bilston

[Merry Christmas Eve with friends and neighbors].

The Concert

 

The harpist believes there is music
in the skeletons of fish

The French horn player believes

in enormous golden snails

The piano believes in nothing

and grins from ear to ear

Strings are scratching their bellies

openly, enjoying it

Flutes and oboes complain

in dialects of the same tongue

Drumsticks rattle a calfskin

from the sleep of another life

because the supernatural crow

on the podium flaps his wings

and death is no excuse

--Lisel Mueller

[Photo of my favorite musicians].

In the Face of War, I’m So Small – Yet, Love is So Big

I can’t make the
world be peaceful
I can’t stall tanks
from roaring down streets
I can’t prevent children
from having to hide in bunkers
I can’t convince the news to
stop turning war into a video game
I can’t silence the sound of bombs
tearing neighborhoods apart
I can’t transform a guided missile
into a bouquet of flowers
I can’t make a warmonger
have an ounce of empathy

I can’t convince ambassadors
to quit playing truth or dare
I can’t deflect a sniper’s bullet
from turning a wife into a widow
I can’t stave off a country from being
reduced to ash and to rubble

I can’t do any of that
the only thing I can do
is to love the next person I encounter
without any strings or conditions
to love my neighbor
so fearlessly that
it causes a ripple
that stretches from
one horizon to the next

I can’t force peace
upon the world
but I can become a force
of peace in the world
because sometimes
sometimes all it takes
is a candle, a single candle
lit in the darkness
to start a movement

“Lord, make me a candle
of comfort in this world
let me burn with peace”

--John Roedel