The Wisdom of Wild Grace. Christine Valters Paintner
be the nouns that root us here on earth:
lemon and lilac, worm and wolf, your lips
and your hands, a paw print in the sand.
Praise be the places where poems hide:
the drawer of old socks, the kitchen window,
the dusty picture frame, and the keychain.
Praise be the verbs that invite us to new places
as we wiggle, wonder, wander, and wish,
flail, flagellate, flower, and fish.
Praise be the spaces between words that pause us
interrupt our headlong quest to arrive at some imagined future,
ask us to be a guest of this moment now.
Praise be the lines from poems that rise up
in the dark, meet me in my sorrow and shame
to bring a lantern, a working latch in the rusty gate.
I Greet the Muse
I met my muse today, a red tulip
with cherry lips open to the sun,
a chalice of daylight held up
to my thirsty mouth.
Another day she comes as the moon,
large marble making arcs above,
giving herself away until she’s gone,
then returns, becoming seed
and slowly sending white blooms
into the night again.
Tomorrow she might arrive
on thunderous waves of the sea,
brine in my eyes and throat
or the soft caverns of shells strewn
on shore, a reminder
of the places I long to dwell
and one day she might land,
yellow bird on a branch,
her song calling me to look up,
glimpse the space between
her notes where the song lives,
where the silence speaks all
I need to hear.
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