Poem of the One World

 

Great White Heron (photo by William Majaros)

This morning

the beautiful white heron

was floating along above the water

and then into the sky of this

the one world

we all belong to

where everything

sooner or later

is a part of everything else

which thought made me feel

for a little while

quite beautiful myself

It's easy to feel beautiful when the pileated wood pecker flashes by with enormous wings in pretentious hurry.  Who cannot imagine feeling smashing with such a colorful red hat?

When a chimpanzees kills another chimpanzee, is he beautiful?

How about when a white heron spears a fish?

Is this not tragic for the fish?

How then do we hold both beauty and tragedy?

Answer: Silly, we hold always both in our heart, for we are of the same mix as they - beautiful, and harmful.

Request:  Remember that we all are a poem of the one world.  Breathe in beauty, but also breathe in suffering and tragedy. Then breathe out less harm.

Moccasin Flowers - April 4, 2010

All my life,

so far,

I have loved

more than one thing...

In spring

the moccasin flowers

reach for the crackling

lick of the sun

and burn down...

But all my life-so far-

I have loved best

how the flowers rise

and open, how

the pink lungs of their bodies

enter the fire of the world

and stand there shining

and willing-the one

thing they can do before

they shuffle forward

into the floor of darkness, they

become the trees

I rejoice in this poem, for today is Easter, Ostara, and our annual Flower Communion. The streets and woods around Gainesville are bursting with light green leaves and flowers poking out through the undergrowth, or exploding atop trees and bushes. Was there ever such a spring? I think every year I ask this - is it me, or is this spring more marvelous than the last? Rilke, in his Ninth Elegy, says, "Earth, my love, I will! My faith yields to you not needing one more of your springs, ach, already one spring is too much for my blood!" My blood stirs with the surprise of what was once barren, I swear, only a few days ago, is now polyphonic splendor. Oh that I was consciously and consistently willing to flower in beauty as intimate death keeps me company under the suns arcing dance. It seems in spring that I am more willing to accept the invitation of death and resurrection and that there is more joy than usual in change. It's as if I feel I am turning into the trees myself, one un noticed in a forest. In watching them with my unknown neighbors who share the same azalea bush, together we turn our hearts to awareness, acceptance, and peace.

What does spring mean to you?