The Oriole by the River

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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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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.

© 2012-2018/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World" 
Published by Talking Waters Press

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