blessing the boats

(at St. Mary's)

may the tide

that is entering even now

the lip of our understanding

carry you out

beyond the face of fear

may you kiss

the wind then turn from it

certain that it will

love your back may you

open your eyes to water

water waving forever

and may you in your innocence

sail through this to that

— Lucille Clifton

1.
The blueberry bushes are beginning to bud, reaching for sun and straining for restoration. The cherry and pear trees, too. And the dogwood, with blooms big as saucers, turns skyward. Winter’s long slog has reached its end. Rejuvenation begins. Inside and out.

All this renewal, each small faith.

2.
What new can we say to welcome spring? All our hoorays and hallelujahs are not new praise but instead, like hope, a familiar welling within. We simply cannot believe — and yet want to desperately believe — in fresh starts.

3.
And so, Lucille. She arrives for National Poetry Month to carry us from winter’s long ache to the fresh sea of spring.

Maybe you’ve heard this poem before. It’s a poetry staple. And yet, this year I read it with awakening.

The poem is quiet and lean, and small (in words, in form, in type). But now the demure poem enlarges my heart. The smallness welcomes my fumble and shuffle, my doubt and despair. It is benediction. Come close, it says, let me love you back to life.

may you sail through this to that

Like a prayer. Like an answer.

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.
Please subscribe here to get each
post delivered free to your email.

The world turns on words.
Thank you for reading & writing.