Hundred and Sixty Five 9.19.16
Rainy Monday in D.C. — You know how this goes. The sun rises and sets, so does the moon. Happening. The wave comes in, sits on the beach’s lap and leaves as quick as it came. Happening. The clouds appear and disappear high in the sky. Sometimes blue, sometimes gray, Sometime full of tears if they wish to cry. Happening. You know how all these go, You know the tidal movement, The appearing and disappearing. You know it all. You know avocados don’t last forever, Parents die, Cars break, Loves end, Lovers leave you, Or you leave them. And when the rain clouds appear you’ll get wet. No one is excluded from happenings, from life, from this journey, afflux. So, how shall we live to not to be touched by the wave, to not to fall apart when darkness falls, or to not cry our heart out for each bruised and dead avocado? I don’t know! But I do know that I still love the roses, even if I cut my fingers on thorns. And will not stop eating avocados, And will not stop loving, will not stop living, Until I do. Eras begin, eras end. Happenings.
How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark
in some quiet unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in the hand?
O sweetest of songs.