What Wondrous Love is

 

1. Breathless

It was 

sitting on a park bench, that 

first I had the sense of being

Contemplated

There was a sharp discomfort 

in his posture, as he 

breathed, and gazed, restless  

across the pond, toward the water fountain

stricken, by some never-asked-for vision 

of a power I was not aware of having 

It was 

somewhere in the same town, 

where overtook me that same awe, of being 

arrested  

by the inkling of a soul, so blue and deep and shifting, like the sea, 

some mystery, unfathomed, drawing inward, by the fact of being

beautiful 

My father ventured 

that the falling bit of love, is to uncover 

for an instant, just a corner 

of the veil over humanity 

whose dazzling explosive worth  

outshines by far the stars of every galaxy,

expanding into rainbow colored ripples 

through the ether    

whose depth goes down, below the deepest ocean, 

where the plankton, never numbered 

or the corals — all the wonders 

live, unknown unto ourselves 

Yes, wondrous love! 

that wings one’s feet to run 10 miles 

or scramble to the summit of the playground 

swaying far above the wide-eyed children — (more a child than these!) —

That makes one free 

– if for a moment – 

to be bold, and fail, and rise again 

omnipotent, beneath the enraptured gaze which, laughing, 

buoys one upward 

toward one’s destiny. 

And yet, with what swift ease, the same veil’s corner falls again…

and leaves us shivering, behind these fig-leaf barriers, for our dignity  

Or even, gently drooping — just as well 

we shouldn’t linger 

at the climax of an inhale 

but descending

see the net of ropes around us and above us 

with our feet upon the ground 

2. Wandering 

Sometimes the way our lives feel is so

Aimless, some sort of vague meandering, like the homeless man who shuffles down my street, two or three or seven times a day, no place to go and with a slight limp, but always moving

Forward, in circles, doing the same things with the same people, starting to take them for granted, feeling the daily tug, inward of self-reflection, self-justification, self-pity, self-care, and wondering why nobody cares

to strike with some lightning flash a 

Great Purpose, or strike up a Great Battle, in the middle of it, something like in the fairy books, or in our dreams from before we committed to things, to doing the same things, with the same people, where we get worn down further and further with all of the same cycles of vices and worries and thoughts and exhaustions and doubts about why things aren’t how they should be, and why there is so much 

Loneliness, here in the middle of everyone, and so much 

Repetition, of feeling ok and then feeling inadequate, of knowing the good things and then just knowing nothing, of falling, without falling, or drooping just slightly like the man does, until his eyes are half closed so you can’t really meet them and he can’t really hear you when you call out to ask him 

Where he’s walking to 

3. Little things 

But it was 

standing in the kitchen,

that first I knew the joy of being 

invaded  – 

hand bracing a loaf of French bread, cutting it with a little black knife, diagonal 

– by something like the expanse of the cosmos

wakened inside of me

holding my breath 

As if there were anything special 

inside that loaf, 

or about that stance 

or a bright red leaf 

or a baby’s eyes 

or a drop of dew… –

to make one want to seize it, there and

live in it 

Yet in the holding we grow faint… 

(No saint was ever fashioned in an instant)

it is only when the breath drops 

down again, that we can really sing

through it – 

with a voice, or a string

when the bow makes circles, but moves them forward, 

and carves out phrases, but really just one

big phrase, from the start to the end 

of a piece — or the whole? — 

from the start to the end of a life 

Ah! Rich is the battle that rages, 

after one wakes to hear the baby,

until one decides to rise again!

And fierce is the freedom that flashes 

between one’s alarm and the moment after

or after the shower, to clean the drain.

And the loop, between starting the engine at dawn, 

and pulling back into the driveway past dark 

is full: as the eyes of a dearly beloved

gazed into.

Just so, is the loop that plays, between breakfast and nap time 

or naptime and bed, 

And it plays again 

and again and again:

little struggles, that build to a breaking point, 

little recoveries, forming their hill with the trough, 

seven times seventy daily vibrations;

discipline, flabbiness; losing, then gaining sight;

little feet, screams of delight, then a thud, and a 

crying of pain, or frustration; recovery;

all of these moments of years, or of decades, dark decades and light ones, the rising and falling, the round string vibrating, the change of a bow at the end of a well curved phrase

My mother counseled 

that Fidelity is learned over a lifetime: 

to surrender, by the moment,

that this Triune Love  

might live in me

and breathe in 

fragrant roses 

breathe out 

little things 

breathe in 

folding laundry  

breath out 

receive — release