love to you and

the way you hold a

pencil,     the way you bend and tilt

 

toward what is important, toward

what moves you     and yet holds

 

you in stilled animation,

wonder,     desire;

 

the way your face      opens

to the widest smile, the

 

bluest

laugh,          like music

 

giving in.     love to you and

the granular tender-

 

ness in your eyes, on your

finger   tips, between the     universe

 

of your lips,     the tension of your sighs. this

kind of     love     has no name; it is just a

 

grate   ful   ness to be in the

same world with      you.

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words, bodies, clouds

Dear God, thank you for this day.

 

Prayers often begin with these words.

I heard these words in my parents’

prayers all the days of my childhood.

 

And now, I say them in my good-night

prayers with my child, often after the

day is breathed and lived and done.

 

The words have become such habit

that I don’t stop to think about the

meaning of them; the heaviness and light:

 

This day; this. here. now.

 

It didn’t have to happen, this day. At the

very least, it didn’t have to happen to me.

 

And yet, here it is.

 

What am I going to do with it?

What am I not going to do?

With whom will I do/not do these things?

 

Is it really a matter of doing, or can

I just be here in this brand new day?

 

And the thank you prayer-part?  A deep

gratefulness for another set of full breaths,

heart pumps, visions, touches, sound bites.

 

The human body is a mystery-marvel. On the

outside, it is aging along with the rest of the

world; on the inside, it is aging more quietly.

 

At the very core, it is a living raging eternal star cloud

just waiting to be joined with other star clouds.

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