Tuesday, May 29, 2012

The Oriole by the River











Image: origin unknown

The oriole chortling by the river
is so much more than simply a bird
glimpsed in the bush.

It is a never-again moment
witnessed,
and shared.

How can I not but feel split open?

I am an innocent,
but one who has willfully surrendered
my heart to Life’s intent to grow
each one of us into something
larger than the body can contain.

In saying - “Yes” - to whatever this is,
I have invited my own undoing.

Anything that has emerged from an
egg,
a seed,
a cocoon,
or a mother’s womb

knows the awe-full process of
breaking from confinement.

What pain.

What ecstasy.

Destiny lies in the way we view
the world when we first open our eyes.

We are so small in the context
of this big and bold and expansive
universe of possibility…

Question 1:

Will you succumb to fear,
crawling back into homespun captivity?

Or...

Question 2:

Will you choose to fully emerge,
embracing vulnerability as your savior?

I can’t help but wonder what that bird
thought when it first peered,
naked,
beyond the rim of its edgy nest cup.

Reflecting upon a moment
by a river,

I have such gratitude for its wings.

© 2012-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" (www.hiraethpress.com) 

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Sunday, May 13, 2012

At the Heart of the Meadow



















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Don’t stop on the edge of the meadow.
You cannot take the pulse of the
wildflowers from there.

Intimacy is at the core of all things.
You must get thickly into it.
You must lay your fears down
at the threshold
if you hope to release the small
of your back into the cradle
of whatever it is you love.

And look up at the sky.
Or let gravity pull you into another.

I have known what a day is like
without ecstasy,
what a night is like when the
loneliness you keep in empty company
fills you so full of void that
you can’t hear
the stars singing.

Such moments were not intended
for anything that breathes.

If the long grasses sliver the length
of your legs, say:

“I am wounded,”

but do not make an event of it.

Instead, look back at what
you have
trampled upon
and offer apologies
in the form of lavish praise.

It is the beauty that you see
there that will turn
your scars
into skin so sensitive
that it longs for
touch from the living.

I once saw a doe come to
nurse her newborn fawn
in the white-blossomed
rose thickets.

She knew to place that which
was most precious
at the heart of the meadow,
and to nurture it there.

Why would she have done
anything less
if she could do this?

And I can do it too.

When the indigo bunting sings,

“Sweet-sweet-sweetie-sweet,”

I wonder if you’ll meet me there.


© 2012-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World" 
Published by Talking Waters Press

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