Monday April 13, 2020
Quoting Brene Brown
Who decides that it’s going to rain? All night and all day filling potholes with mud puddles and leaves with April’s tea. That night, a reprieve, finally at longest last, moths
flock to the light of the lamp in the window. Bodies like buds, wings like paper, flying in circles to be close to the bright. I don’t know the things I thought I knew
but I know how to care for my wonder, stroke
my breaking like the perfect head of my daughter,
know that this too is the point, this too
is as miraculous as the hummingbird against the azure sky.
Wisdom brings me good jokes and simple songs, thank goodness, I laugh out loud at the whirlpool of past and present here, in my hands, catching story, alchemizing cells to rain
to whatever coming next.