Time to be the fine line of light

between the blind and the sill, nothing
really.  There are so many things

that destroy.  To think solely of them
is as foolish and expedient as not

thinking of them at all.  All I want
is to be the river though I return

again and again to the clouds.
All I want is to stop beginning sentences

with All I want.  No--no really all 
I want is this morning: my daughter

and my son saying "Da!" back and forth
over breakfast, cracking each other up

while eating peanut butter toast
and raspberries, making a place for

the two of them I will, eventually,
no longer be allowed to enter.  Time to be

the fine line.  Time to practice being
the fine line.  And then maybe the darkness.

​    - Carrie Fountain

​Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
in the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring
it in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love the silence,
sighing and saying to
yourself, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

​    - Jack Ridl

Come closer.

This fire will all too soon
be ash.

I would tell you the story the moth knows
for making peace with the night.

The story tears have for making medicine
out of grief.

The story for eliciting the purr
in the belly of the tiger.

If you listen to your blood
you can hear the story of the sea
pulled by the moon
in the open sky
pouring the water of rivers
into your heart.

You can hear the aria
of the wind that the birds
know by heart

singing the story of your body
a hundred generations
in the making.

Come closer:

This is the story that will be yours
long after I have left this place.

​    - Madronna Holden

Because after the snow and the rain
the redwing blackbird trills in the cattails
and the song of the inner life is born again.
And from out of our dark caves
we stumble and call to each other
wondering what has been transformed
in the winter months and who will now emerge.
We are like bears bounding
out of the mountain, slightly bewildered
blinking in the bright new light,
ravenous for the world.

​This is eros unleashed​--
the seduction of apple blossoms--
petals raining on wet fertile earth,
hummingbirds unzipping the cerulean sky,
the glint of streamflow and bare skin.
How the full moon pours Maylight
upon our upturned faces,
and the breezes carry the scent of longing
and melancholy, lilac and the spice
of all that is greening.

We have died a thousand times
and been reborn for this.
To lie back, even for a moment,
into the arms of the world--
to meet eros in every turn--
to be courted by you who stirs
the inner waters and tears apart
the old husks. Yes, you
who makes us want to eat fire
and lay down in every meadow.

We have been waiting for your arrival
and now you are here,
no longer a Stranger, but a Storm--
you, who strikes the bell of awakening,
so the whole body rings out
with Delight.

​    - Laura Weaver

You there.
Have you forgotten something?
Something about choosing?
Look around: is this the world you promised yourself?

I want to know who you could become
if the conditions were just right.
I want to know the you that's possible
with just enough thunder
and just enough sun.

Who taught you the human smile,
and did it ever land
in the living tissues of your human heart
beating miracles for free--
or is your face always onstage?

When you speak do you hear that one
as the oldest friend
since your microcosmic firework of conception,
which made creatures of the earth and sky alike
shudder with jollity and not know why,

or does your own voice
still sound to you like a stranger?
I want to know if you need permission
to arrive home right now
into your body longing to learn you.

Do you know breath as always a holy door?
Who are you when you breathe
down deep, at last allowed to feel it all,
and your hair bursts into flame, and you remember:

we don't choose once and it's over,
but are asked to re-engage in every instant.
Look around: this very world
needs your arrival now, like sun
and like thunder, now and now and now.

​    - Brooke McNamara