It’s warm and dark out here this morning, just a light breeze, as I crest the hill, my feet silent on the path, the city lights spread out before me, there, sitting quietly on the grass is a fox taking in the view.
As I pass by he looks over his shoulder and we acknowledge one another, then he turns back to his morning contemplation and I continue with to mine.
I think of all the empty places where nobody ever goes, places that slowly fill with secrets which are tended by the spirits of the dead until the people they belong find enough courage to bring them home to their hearts again, home to all of our hearts, where they can make us strong and fearless, as we were always meant to be.
Sometimes things only happen at the very end, things like this poem, which came to me as I was pushing open my front door having returned from my morning walk.
Even things like hope for the future can come at the end, weathered by time, grown lean and fit through a long life of trying and failing.
Then the hopes that remain are true hopes, a collaboration between life experience, trust and belief, not based on selfishness, fantasy or denial, they aren’t even something you can benefit from yourself, but still, they’re a beautiful gift for your grandchildren.
There it is again, infinitely vulnerable, infinitely strong, beautiful and gentle, something that heals and coheres without recourse to pressure, explanations, structures and rules.
Love makes whole all that is broken and because creation is the effect of love so is re-creation, it’s not the other way around and I hope I don’t think I am so special that I am beyond hope of it ever affecting me.
Poetry is the art of writing forbidden words, words that coil like a ropes across the page binding light into sentences that can be debated, interpreted and changed, beware of poets, they have a way of jailing what they liberate.
There’s another way, one that doesn’t lead to more or less, to the past or the future or sickness or health, it’s a path that goes in, in to where everything already exists, all of Creation already within, nothing left out, not even me.