Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
...if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky-as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.
The sun is not yet up. There is time still in the darkness to imagine who I already am: frail, small, patient, strong, tall. My heart opens to what I am and so this too opens the way for what I would like my life to be. This morning, so far, I'm alive, touching the earth as moss and reaching for the sky as oak and crow. May I every time I see the laurel oak strung with Spanish Moss and alive with black ruckus, imagine who I am, even if it is the boy in Jakarta that Mary tells us about tomorrow.
Who do you imagine yourself to be? Who are you already?
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