The
almost but
not yet abounds.
We
grow in
darkness and quiet.
Dig.
Cover with
dirt, water, sun.
Grow.
Unfold. Stretch.
Breathe. Howl. Shine.
Expand
and lengthen.
Abandon yourself
to
the almost
but not yet
Generous Wisdom | Spacious Heart
Wise Heart Practices of Movement, Metaphor, Meditation & Meaning
The
almost but
not yet abounds.
We
grow in
darkness and quiet.
Dig.
Cover with
dirt, water, sun.
Grow.
Unfold. Stretch.
Breathe. Howl. Shine.
Expand
and lengthen.
Abandon yourself
to
the almost
but not yet
Poems are meanings,
attempts at meaning-making,
successes and failures and in-betweens.
Sometimes we are alone.
Sometimes we hear our children
use phrases like, “outside of Time and Space.”
These kinds of poems talk about life and its
songs, our anthems, laments, and jubilations.
They are creations and we are creators.
God is Poet, ever-present, ever-creating
meaning-maker. And this, another ars poetica.
But it never tires of me, poetry. Nor I of it.
Nor God of me. Nor I of God.
You are my gift, dear poem,
you are like my breath; you wake me,
and sing me to sleep.
You are my gift, dear poetry,
you are like my life’s blood; you energize me
and carry me on.
You are my gift, dear writing,
you are like my body; you move me
and support my soul.
You are my gift, dear Giver of gifts,
you are the Poet; you create
and you keep on creating.