A dear friend of mine recently described her new found love for ballet. She felt silly in her enthusiasm because she was a novice and knew nothing about the technical aspects of the dance, she just knew she loved it. That’s how I feel about poetry. There is a naive joy in it for me.
Held
As I sink
deeper into the snow,
I feel utterly held.
My mood lightens,
body and mind soften,
despite
a mild hangover—
that is like a murky veil
blocking me from what’s beyond.
As I fall further
into this suspension,
I drift back to
my dreams,
to a wordless conversation
with bears, birds and snakes—
a kinship I wish to carry over
into waking life.
In this moment
of solace,
I’m reminded
of a poem that’s been floating around in my mind.
It goes something like this;
Why is it
that I insist
on grand signs from God?
When the moments
I feel most connected
are as simple — and profound
as the vibration
of that dying moth
on my finger…
or the rustling of the grass
against the snow
that holds me
in Love.
–Mariah
1 comment:
a poem within a poem – – – so beautiful