a poem of hope in challenging times

“I do not weep at the world – i am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” – Zora Neale Hurston
that the sun insists on breaking itself

over the blunt edge of horizon to spill its gold yolk

across dim sky morning after morning 

that oceans keep oceaning

their tides pulsing

with a blood-like rhythm
that forests keep foresting

their ferns unfurling emerald 

their fine needles jeweled with dew gems

their rough-barked trunks adding new rings

through the freeze and thaw of seasons

(a signal that roughly translates into we are still here)
that the apples that orbed this fall

along the branches of our humble orchard 

which rings our humble pond

were the best i have ever tasted in my lifetime

despite enduring the worst floods seen in forty years

whose waters took our corn, our wheat, our beans

which means while this year’s harvest wasn’t abundant

it was still enough
that the shimmer of stars can be seen

years after they have burnt out

is just one slice of an extensive collection of proof 

that we are all universes of wonder

whose magic can never be extracted

by which i mean

your ribcage is a bone-woven basket

curved to contain

the light of everyone you have ever loved

your ribcage is a fortress 

fortified to hold the laughter, the landscape, the food steam and smells

that rise from every place you have ever called home

your ribcage holds a library

of every song, prayer or poem

you have ever taken inside yourself

and because you,

like a song, a home, a molten and pulsing light,

are similarly carried inside the ribcages of others

your spirit, tender and ferocious,

can never be contained
and because your spirit

can never be contained

the struggle never really was/is really a fight

but rather a declaration

of the brightness we are all made of

and a broadcasting beyond all barriers of its glow

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