Ways to Hold On and Let Go
A rare February sunrise
says the winter woods are red—
ruby, rust, raspberry, maroon, crimson
branches steam in the streaming light,
suddenly alive the way similar spirits lift
when they meet in a lonely place.
A sparrow’s song drops like a marble
on a xylophone key over the frosted hill
where two wild geese sit in the morning sun.
Even sparrow comes close to sorrow.
One nimble neck reaches toward the other.
There are ways to hold on and let go.
The silent clamor of sadness comes like a cloud
of starlings to line every inch of my branches.
Each grief together takes on a life of its own.
And a chorus of spring frogs crawls through the earth
as it thaws in my roots, knowing light
mostly by longing.
~
Opossum
with a nod to Rilke
It is not impossible some quiet morning,
when you have lost all sense
of your significance, the earth
will amble along the fence row
and poke the point of its knowing face
through a gap in the groundcover
to square with yours and tell you again
about Oneness,
then turn and swish back
through the brush
to the heart of the forest.
If this happens, kneel
and open your soul
wide enough to release
whatever keeps you
from hearing
the silent earth say:
you are.
