In the Depths of Despair

In the depths of despair,

as the dagger twists,

I pause to say thank you.

Thank you because a look into another’s eyes

now reveals the moment the fire seared their skin,

and there is no separation between us.

Thank you because each new familiar hurt

feels less like my pain

and more like the pain that unites,

that sends us running to the arms of strangers

who are our mothers.

Thank you because always, inevitably,

the ice melts, the buds of spring return,

and the soil of my being is made

soft and fertile from the harsh cold months.


Angels’ Request

I’ve got angels at my elbows

tapping on my shoulder

with such reserved delicacy

it’s no surprise I almost never know they’re there.

There’s an ache in the chambers

of the seraphim,

an urgency in their auras –

they have no fingers to reach out

with the tenderness of heaven,

no lips to kiss bruised and confused faces,

no voices to encourage others

to speak, and to listen.

They’re asking all day long,

with nervous benevolence,

if we’d please be alright with holding

messengers in our fingertips?

If, perhaps, it’d be possible

for us to crack open our souls

to let love run like honey over them?

Whether, provided we’re not too busy,

we’d allow Connection’s emissaries

to treat our flesh and bone

as a boarding house for the jolts

and pulsing waves of unbridled compassion

that push out into the sunshine,

where we’ve all been looking for it

so desperately.

Day 17: Meditation on Boundaries

Touch each other’s fingertips

and shut your eyes tight.

Pin out the point

where “you” becomes “them,”

and let it dissolve.

Feel for what tingles,

multiplied and pulled into concentration

where skin softly meets.

Let wisps of need and confusion dart

a dance in the interim of me and you,

till separation is muddied,

and we see in each other

an abundance of “us.”


Beloved, teach me to see You

in the eyes of every frightened soul,

show me that dance of light

in the cries of a child,

peel my fists from my sheltered heart

and whisper how to give myself

to every shivering hand,

to let the light spill

like sparks in the darkness.