Hope

In response to violence, they asked,
what keeps us safe, keeps us
well, ticking, in touch, up all night,
from falling apart, going,
together?
I answered everything.

I joined the reading, latecomer,
tenderfoot
to a few familiar faces,
farmers, if you can believe it, all women,
and a teacher.
Prognosticators, seekers seeing
others in community.

Disordered hearts, ground to knees.
That’s honestly the way of it.
We are what we resist.
We become the earth.
What is this soil, and
will it guide me
to parts of myself
I can’t find?

A voice rose with
The Peace of Wild Things
which was not among
the curated selection
on trust, on loss,
on prayer, on water.
We made space
for that and grief,
for wildness, for stars.

In the night
these lines disgorged from me
silent and sleeping.
Please, no! I am not your poet!
I cannot make sense
or excuses for coming to
this edge again
and again, to suck dreams
from the sky I see dancing
in dark water.

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Today’s piece took root from a poetry reading in a quiet space, a quiet and deeply historic space, with people who were willing and able to be still for an hour. While not new to the art of poetry, I still wonder if I’m wearing the hat correctly. That said, since correctness isn’t a goal for this project, I come to poetry, humbly. Or, I should say, poetry comes to me.

With acknowledgement for organizer, Kerry Folan, and the thoughtful collection of poems she assembled, I invite you to fully explore this community-building opportunity here and to consider how you might bring it into your holiday season.

And, for those who struggle to find their connection to poetry, and true to my attention to optimism, I offer this light-inspiring TED video.

Peace,
Elizabeth