From Blossoms

From blossoms comes

this brown paper bag of peaches

we bought from the boy

at the bend in the road where we turned toward   

signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,

from sweet fellowship in the bins,

comes nectar at the roadside, succulent

peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,

comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into   

the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

--Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms” from Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee.

wherever you are

A person swimming through ripples in royal blue water.

Wherever you are, be there. Take up space. Occupy the full dimension. 

Unfold the map of your body. Celebrate its topographical wonder,

its unpredictable weather. Make a pool of your movements, then swim

through the ripples, parting the room with your footsteps. Make no apology

for the squeak of your soles, how your jacket swishes at your thighs, that the dust

is making you sneeze. Consider it all a kind of orchestra, you tuning the keys,

you lifting the horn of your whole self to the air. Let the notes of you blast out,

at a register and speed that won’t leave you hungry or empty. Let anyone hear, 

as they walk by with their shoulders up, pretending not to listen. Wherever you are,

remember why you are here: to sing.

--Maya Stein

Like the Fern

Like a fiddlehead unfurling

on the forest floor, shedding

the layers of worn brown leaves

that had once protected it,

we too need to keep growing

at our own pace, in our own

sweet time. Unfolding to reveal

the hidden green heart 

we always knew was there

waiting for the moment 

it finally became too painful

to stay locked inside

the lightless room of a life

that no longer serves us.

—James Crews

The Journey

Above the mountains 

the geese turn into

the light again

painting their

black silhouettes

on an open sky.

Sometimes everything 

has to be

inscribed across 

the heavens

so you can find 

the one line

already written 

inside you.

Sometimes it takes 

a great sky

to find that

first, bright

and indescribable

wedge of freedom

in your own heart.

Sometimes with

the bones of the black

sticks left when the fire 

has gone out

someone has written 

something new

in the ashes

of your life.

You are not leaving,

even as the light 

fades quickly now,

In my eyes

you are always

arriving.

--David Whyte