XI

Reflections On Solitude

Maybe we drink too much of the Other, 

And we never sober up 

To feel the slow burn of the spirit 

And live inside that space, or

spend the mornings alone

in a quiet hammock; the world a soft cocoon around our hard-earned shape. 

Maybe I’m here to spend my days learning how to love the empty space.  

To know which cracks to fill and which to leave, 

Open and whistling,

The wind digging through the marrow, 

And smoothing it into something unknowably beautiful.

Maybe I’ll let this be enough:

My hands making some small lovely things,

The slow burn of the spirit…

And the hungry mouths of stars,

Swallowing the lost places up,

And sending me light that is New

and Strange

and All ways… 

Maybe that is the biggest romance of all.