my gentle soul,
huddled,
prayed to evaporate,
and hid its form:
a broken chord.

my gentle soul
sensed
another, guarded by fear,
who hid its form,
stern and stoic.

the two gentle, silent souls
felt their gravity.
drawn to each other
like spiritual magnets.

they sat in silence
sometimes in a tree.
sometimes on a couch.
sometimes in front of a sunset.

and sometimes the silence was louder than a symphony.

the silence
sang of spirits
spun together
into soulmates.

the beauty of their silence
became too powerful for silence to hold.
and so i sang.

the song that poured out
was holier than any hymn.
it sang of a love that didn’t move mountains.
no, much more powerful.
a love that,
by a swarm of sparrows,
moved two people off the edge of a mountain,
and into each other’s arms.

after a year of silence,
he made me sing again.
brought this soul to life.
more beautiful music has never been made,
(she is sure of it, and thinks he is too)

than when those two gentle souls
sat in silence,
occasionally,
between them,
a hum.

of refuge,
solitude,
and anthro.

of friends,
sisters,
and orders.

of late night hallelujahs,
morning brunches,
and midday ninjals.

of blood brethren,
police,
and tears.

of desperation,
pleas,
and gut-wrenching cries.

of sugar cookie tea,
gwen’s soup,
and taco bell solidarity.

of new years,
new ages,
and new childhoods.

of laughter,
telepathy,
and puns.

of shalom,
secrets,
and Trudes.

of 19,
9,
and an angel in between.

of being held,
believed,
and known.

of holding,
believing,
and knowing.

this tiny room
of miracles:
take flight.

let

your soul sing,

your hair dance in the sun,

your feet grip the earth,

and your eyes take in your beauty,

and the beauty of all who cross your path today.

Her recovery is based not on the illusion that evil has been overcome, but rather on the knowledge that it has not entirely prevailed and on the hope that restorative love may still be found in the world.

Having encountered evil, she knows how to cling to what is good. Having encountered the fear of death, she knows how to celebrate life.

Only at this point can she contemplate her story as one among many and envision her particular tragedy within the embrace of the human condition.

Her recovery is accomplished; all that remains before her is her life. 

she knows
he’s just
a lookalike
a happenstance
that tricks her with
each timid glance.

patient
presents with
firmer feet
but shaky ground,
heavier by
18 month-pounds.

she knows
she is
a feel-alike,
a press rewind,
a heart that longs
to be his ‘mine.’

they say patience is a… choo
bless you
virtue
they do
bless you
teach you
keep you
show you

that love regrows,
remolds,
renews,

in quiet,
humble,
sacred,

moments of patients.

and now
i have ten holes
for 23 years i’ve had zero
and now i have ten.
ten hollow places
ten fucking straws that broke the camel’s back

completely unbelievable
and yet totally so,
since life has hole-punched me
at least ten times
in the past five months.

my left shouts
plaque and enamel
are just that,
plaque and enamel.
but the right pounds,
you’ve let life strip and drain you,
erosion,
decay,
become a breeding ground for hollow places,
the third month to the day.

you used to be the model patient,
always made god the dentist proud.
now just another rotting one,
crumbling,
atrophied,
hollow.
ten times and three months over.

priorities matter. when will we start caring for the earth and stop building towers of babylon?

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/03/us/03seafood.html?hp