In you the heart

seeks no barrier.

Clouds come and rest.

— Drew Myron

A friend wrote recently:

My poems get shorter because there’s too much to say.

I’m there too. In the throes of steady high alert — health, war, injustice, economy — I’m both paying attention and turning away. I’m holding in and back, holding on, conserving every emotional expense. There’s just so much and I’m both enlarged with frustration and reduced by fatigue.

But the world beyond my head lifts in hope: sun strains to shine, lilacs urge to burst, and everywhere trees bloom in glorious color and scent.

All is now, now, now, this, this, this. All is well.

And all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
— Julian of Norwich