Dear Miracle

Setting free the beautiful truth inside.


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Like This When the Telephone Rings

I wrote this a short while ago, just before the Boston Marathon Bombing, not knowing exactly why or what it was for–it was what came through, what wrote itself.

boston-marathon-explosion-bombs

There is no knocking,

this dark stranger of disbelief, of incivility

who, without warning, arrives

at your door, shouldering past, coming in.

Some wild force of nature, a hammer—

you never could have predicted (although there were signs),

you crumble.

And everything gives at once—porch chimes,

trash cans, the roof, your life,

what’s not nailed down.

A wild plethora of Dogwood petals in pink set free,

fly past, slam to the ground.

A grief presaged

in blossoms

unleashed, their splendor still intact

in the rubble of what’s left.

Grace and grief together, an annihilation,

yet to be understood.

Loss can come at you like this when

the telephone rings.

 © 2013  ~  S. Wolfington

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Woman Who Waits

IcelandLast night, I was held captive,

a kitchen slave tied to the galley amidst

formal rooms upon rooms between floors

upon floors,

half dead among pots and pans

cooking for some nameless man who

ignored me in his big house.

For years I disappeared—search party had given up

until a young girl found me, took me by the hand

and led me out.

Last night I was a rich lady putting on airs

at Neiman Marcus, hair

covered in swathes of

white fabric that showed my pedigree,

customary for well-to-do ladies like myself—

that is, in dreams.

That is, until I looked in the mirror and saw

the disheveled smeared made up face, the aging lines,

panicked I would be seen and

scouring floor to floor for makeup counters that would save me.

This was my dream.

Messages from the underworld of my soul—

pay attention, please!

Not washer woman, not rich woman,

but woman in first light’s chill scrambling

up slick footed moss covered knolls

to revel in maiden recital of dew coated starlings and sparrows.

Woman rapt with awe in amazement’s cloak—

slack jawed, eye struck watching

as sun climbs by slivers

just past mountain’s top.

A woman witness to riotous revelry heralding

birth of first light—all of nature lifting its head to sing in

intemperate praise!

Not this—slave, drudge or drone of days, I am free!

Not this—above or below, but equal to the breadth and width of my days.

I am this—woman who waits,

if there is a way,

to translate on to page such thinly skinned sacred splendor,

my soul eager, breath-held in rapture as I wait.

Toes dug in mud, stars and soul tangled together, I wait.

Exultant life in sun and starlings and first morning’s light

coursing through my veins,

its blood

bleeding on to page.

© 2012  –  S. Wolfington


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Dear Miracle

This week, having been a little unsettling, I accept myself in whatever state I am in–doubt, sadness, joy, pain, bliss, I’ve run the gamut. There is room for everything. I am perfectly imperfect. I’m going with that.

This week, I accept that words have eluded me as I have struggled with my imperfect attempts to be brilliant here.  After much effort of starting, stopping, stilting, nothing until stop–I’ve felt like a too hard eraser that stubs across and rips at the page. I offer this instead, a poem in honor of this sacred life and being–

Dear Miracle Poetry Artwork 037copy22jpg

Let the soft animal that is your body,

rise up from the earth.

You who live on the edge of infinity and stars,

feet on the ground deeply rooting into black soil beneath you,

feel as emerald earth rises up through your bones.

This animal that you are, that houses you,

needs stroking, needs petting,

needs feeding and nurture.

Let it purr.

Your animal soft or sleek is perfect,

this suit of blood and bone and flesh—

born from Earth and stars

—that houses the light of ten suns.

This animal that is your home for such a brief time,

that gives you arms to surround and hold close with;

hands to comfort or create with;

legs to run, to climb mountains or merely to move towards

a crying child; and

eyes that mirror the heart beating inside your chest.

This being-ness so full of miracles

in every miniscule act,

in the little lion that roars when its hungry;

in the vast army of red corpuscles muscling their way

through your body,

its vast arterial highway—

down to atoms and quarks in joyous dance

and light that explodes in ecstasy

in the cosmos that lies between.

As the heart flows into the body in

muscle and skin and lungs that breathe;

in fits of laughter when your eyes water

and your beautiful cheeks can take it no more

and your body is doubled over with pleasure—

until the last day your animal serves,

until earth reclaims your house,

and your light is freed, what shall you do?

Till then, here’s a clue:

Love the animal you find yourself in.

Praise it often for giving everything you need and more.

Why give it less when it asks so little of you?

Just a little fresh air and sunshine, some good food,

laughter and friends to hold near,

some cleansing tears—

Dear Miracle:

Choose to be an opening everyday

through which love lives.

© 2010 Susan Wolfington