gallery of the unfinished

the miles move like the years;

the trees climb themselves.

 

when you go, the absence you leave

behind will not last long—the mutable

 

shapes fill in. if you want

something to last, say so.

 

the world takes care of itself,

but will also love you back.

 

 

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hands on

god is not one of us;

god is all of us.

 

if we could put our

hands on

 

the whole world,

we would feel it—

 

the story of

the story of the

 

spiral pearly gate

opening and leading

 

us up and out of our

self-preserved caves,

 

around and around in

remembrance circles until

 

we could not do even one thing

without love.

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Miracle

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It is a Miracle that there is a blank page waiting every day.

It is a Miracle that I can write words on it.

It is a Miracle that you can read these words.

It is a Miracle that these words can become pictures, feelings, symbols, connections.

It is a Miracle that each person can experience different pictures, feelings, symbols, connections from the same words.

It is a Miracle that words can form ideas.

It is a Miracle that ideas can form actions.

It is a Miracle that actions can change you, can change me, can change the world.

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four-teen

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my daughter is

writing poems and

 

playing piano

keys while the

 

world is spinning, telling her

she should be working.

 

the singing apple is still falling

from the tree

 

in slow   motion

ecstasy;

 

obelisk of beauty and utility:

reaching, perching on the edge

 

of still pools, longing

to be space-craft.

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