How many pots have you scorched in pursuit of the good life, warm soup, or steamed greens? No worries. You’re often distracted by sparkling words.
How many scrapes and bruises have you endured because of hasty departures or overpacked plans? No sweat. You thought you could cut corners that cannot be cut.
Is your fastidious loading of the dishwasher a point of pride or a place to hide because the terrain of shame is so steep?
You polish your resentments like silver. This isn't wise. Pack them up and drag them to town. Melt them down. The Blacksmith turns everything into serving bowls.
Conjure up some joy. Old is inescapable. Young is no one’s fault. Apologize when you recognize that your memories are wrong. Gently move along.
How many times must you be reminded that only love is worth the extra weight? One more time, you plead. One more time.
But what is love? A tally that tips the scales? Count the stars in the heavens, the hairs on your head. Map the terrain of your body. Make a schema of your heart,
and when your beleaguered soul demands a list of what you’ve done that matters, give it a cup of something warm and curl up for a nap.
Short visits with an honest God 