It may happen that your words fall short of your thoughts, do not despair. You do not have to worry, you do not have to do this right. The great privilege of the poet is simply to be afforded the chance to even try – it’s all just a try, all of it is just an attempt, a reach – to cradle, just for a few sacred moments little flecks of infinite amounts of the stuff which explodes in the galaxies, which turns always on its axis within us, the very life which is relentless in passing us by.
You do not have to do this how they tell you. You do not have to be anything other than what you are, sliding your torn humanity alongside the words. You are worthy. Give to the words everything and they will give you everything in return.
Humility. Curiosity. Joy.
All of this fullness, it is all in motion as we stand still at the glass: at the swift feet of the winged universe. We are here inside a translation, a transmission, making attempts. Making little marks on trees, on sand, on paper, on hands.
Reminders: we are here, we are here, we say to ourselves.
What does it mean? How may I serve? I’ve been to a secret place and this is what I have seen: Is it fire, is it water, is it honey, is this something you can use? We unearth tools from a time we no longer recognize but something – a thorn, a glance, a pin prick – is familiar to the blood. We belong and we don’t belong. We are footsteps, echoes far away from home, making a way in the dark.
We are suspended always inside the reverent space between the scream and the static. Holding. Holding. Holding.
Listening for the breath, sinking low underneath the quiet only heard by the solitary ones. Hold steady the weight of a world gone to dust and offer it your gentle arms. Hold this space, hold this space. Hold this skin. Collect these bones and let them teach you how to build, word upon word, the honor is in the courage to approach that which calls to you.
Bare feet. Bare soul.
Because this too shall pass.
Clouds will cross a lonely moon.
You will become your own again soon.