When Love Comes Home

It is easy, by comparison, to love everything else

Here, where love is most needed

It’s often hardest to come by

I (like you) was not taught to love me

Having woken one day to find no love here

I went looking for it out there

When love comes home

You’ll hear the songs of praise around you

You’ll see how loved you’ve always been

When love comes home

The Things I Thought Were Me

I come to a stop

At first, it's hard to breathe

As wants, needs, fears, ifs and buts

(The things I thought were me)

Implore me to go on

Much like a clamouring, mewling litter

From this silent dwelling-place

I hear their sweet cries

And gently greet them one by one

Shrill though they can be

They never actually wanted to run the show

I Am Not The Author

I am not the author of this play

Defying all my attempts to rewrite, recast, edit, or expunge

Each scene has remained stubbornly true to itself

Knowing that I, despite my protestations,

Have no idea how the script is written

Neither am I the architect of this house

Its arcs, lines and curves, its walls and doors

None are of my making, whatever my claims

Life's form is entirely its own:

The sweet futility of wanting to make alterations to a design

The intricacies and hues of which leave me open-mouthed

And speechless with gratitude

As If All There Is Isn't Enough

It’s all already here

It’s in this view of roofs and aerials and sky

It’s in the feel of the bed beneath me, the pillows behind my head

It’s in the tears coming down my face and in the song I’m listening to

Exhausted (from all that frantic attempting to change what was here)

I’m momentarily grief-stricken

Now it’s clear there’s nothing to be done

I thought I had to be somebody

As if all there is isn’t enough

As if there was anything to add or take away

As if the lily needed to be gilded

(And as if I had the slightest idea how to gild)

Not A Hair's Breadth

We’re trying to be what we already are

Striving to mend the unbroken

Now there’s a thankless task...

Yes, yes: I know it feels

As if we’re shattered, flawed, in need of ministration

Yet complete and incomplete have not a hair’s breadth between them

Trust me: you are as miraculous today

As you were on the day you were born