There is space for everything.
For this unmade bed, for dishes in the sink,
for the need to sit here and gather dust
against unfinished chores.
Space enough for not knowing or why
after you’ve counted it out, things transform.
There is space enough, in abundance, in spades,
in dark and light and intense pain, in doubling-over laughter,
or the beggar on the corner, in the taking of a life
or the birthing of a child, in unending grief.
In the giving of compassion, in the restoration of
what wounds or is wounded, between any equation,
there is space enough.
Inside the life of everything,
on this lesser planet spinning on a wheel of stars,
in the unfathomable blackness of matter or hearts,
in galaxies that collide to craft a larger whole or
exploding supernovas in the shape of a womb,
there’s space for dying so that something might be born.
Messy, glorious life—it’s enough.
The whole of everything—a luscious trailing vine, keeps on
into blackened holes, over walls, snaking along
impenitent ground, finding its way in the order of things,
becoming and dying all at once.
No matter what in any mind, it’s enough.
© 2014 Shoshana Wolfington