why can’t the world just be warm and soft,
dancing fireflies and feathered chickadees,
bright red primroses,
why can’t it dance like Fred Astaire?
Why must it always careen sideways, the answer always
farther than your arm can reach to grab it back to safety?
Why must crazy thoughts interfere,
why must sodden emotions
drown away lightness, mirth, the joy of sunrise?
Why can’t we always twirl, dream,
our cheeks sideways to the moon?
Why can’t we always draw cool sweet water
from the well of our knowing
instead of looping, swerving,
hardly staying on the road of life at all?
I could tell you:
What witnesses the refusal to stay put?
What witnesses the right turn
when you want, oh you want, to veer left?
What watches, what oversees,
what is larger, brighter, more encompassing
than your every desire, fear,
running back to second base?
What sings its ancient motionless
silent sacred song,
than you ever dream before
rising from soft pillow with
tears or arthritis or leaping youth?
Yet, how do we join that which we are,
which birthed us, suckled us, hummed us into wheat fields
and haunted shadowed valleys?
How do we drop questing thoughts, sultry emotions,
how do we surrender, you ask.
She arrives tomorrow morning to ask me,
to share her layered tear-faced
perhaps bird-watching story.
How would you answer?
How do you surrender, fully, 100%, pray tell?
How do we live our essence beneath that suffering
that wanting happy-ever-after?
What would you tell her,
witnessing what asks you.