To Thrive, photo by Drew Myron
1.
Is this what
it means
to thrive —
when the eyes
are weary and
the heart heaves
when the light is
just right —
an ordinary green
against a concrete
end shines
with life?
2.
Study the sky, the slant of light.
Weigh the world, the words, the low laugh, the long sigh.
Look for signs of life. Measure, measure, proof.
Always the reach between said and unsaid, I am grasping for lasts.
3.
Words wander from me, looking for better, more receptive, homes.
I wear these ones instead:
I do not want us to be immortal or unlucky.
To listen for our own death in the distance.
Take my hand. Stand by the window.
I want to show you what is hidden in
this ordinary . . .
— excerpt from Once, a poem by Eavan Boland
4.
This morning the blueberry bush is a glow of holy auburn.
It’s just light, I know, that aching autumn trick of
time that turns me inward, turns me in.
5.
In this season of letting go I can’t determine
despite prodding, pushing, pulling, willing, waiting:
Is this life or death, and what’s the difference?
6.
Walk toward the light.
Isn’t that a faithful saying, or at least a poem
(and again, what’s the difference)?
By miracle or chance I found this poem today.
And now I have a plan, a path:
The Light Continues
Every evening, an hour before
the sun goes down, I walk toward
its light, wanting to be altered.
Always in quiet, the air still.
Walking up the straight empty road
and then back. When the sun
is gone, the light continues
high up in the sky for a while.
When I return, the moon is there.
Like a changing of the guard.
I don’t expect the light
to save me, but I do believe
in the ritual. I believe
I am being born a second time
in this very plain way.
* * *
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Send light —write.