Thursday, January 28, 2016


High up on Mount Diablo, along its ledged ascent, I forget 
he is dead. 
Above clouds, almost in night’s realm, I know nothing. 
Clouds flow under me as flocks of angels 
shielding me from the darkness below, 
waking me from all knowledge. 
From knowing I ever had a husband
nor knowing anything at all under cloud.
Indeed I am new born in veils of blue light. 
Used to just a picture in every room without the scan
of hazle eyes, no swallowing a brick.  
And just like that, I am used to living in sky
as if my house has been standing here all along, 
without its floor ever dropping away. 
And here’s what I tell myself:
Life must stay porous. Pathways must open 
so the mouse can wiggle free 
and the wild geese fly in. 
No matter how lonely I am, the world 
offers itself to my imagination.  
Mary Oliver believes this. I will believe her. 
Swear allegiance to her. 
But this will take patience. It will take time. 
It will take this palm fast on my heart.