How can we conceive of and find language for “everyday mystery” these days in ways that transcend all the old constructs that no longer nourish us?
You can’t know what I have to share
unless I speak. I know,
I know, it’s all loaded, the spiritual,
no way to cross that threshold with anyone
who hasn’t opened—or who has closed
with good reason—
No way to offer such wine.
Or is there? Is a baby’s breath enough,
or a dew-covered tomato rising
out of brambled profusion
in the backyard, near the fig tree
spilling its jewels?
But then those moments come,
like sudden lightning that clears the field
and jolts our hearts, too,
simple, simple exchanges
that meet their mark.
What will I see, feel, know,
contribute, and be fed by today if I watch
closely, present to the mystery
in everything? The question
thrills me. And
that matters, too.