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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