What did you lose?

What did you lose
when you crossed the ocean?
Was it more than time?
What did you lose
that you did not want to lose?

What did you gain
when you crossed the ocean?
Was it more than distance?
What did you gain
that you wanted to gain?

Did you know then
what you did not want to lose?
Did you know then
what you wanted to gain?
Do you know now?

Is there more than time
that can ever be lost
or more than knowledge
that can ever be gained?

Paws on the Window

Hearing paws on the window,
kitten,
I'll come to the door.

I'll bring a saucer of milk,
kitten,
and some cream from the store.

You need not come in,
kitten,
and I need not go out.

We'll just sit by the threshold,
kitten,
while we figure this out.

I've never thanked the air ...

I've never thanked the air for being there.
I've never thanked the sun.
But I have breathed and I have bathed
as much as anyone.

And I have soared and I have viewed
the world from such a height
that even angels fear to fall
(and even angels might).

And I have sailed or have been blown
so far across the sea
that I am now no longer sure
who's traveling with me.

But still this air and still this sun
and still ourselves as well,
will breathe and bathe and nothing more,
and only time will tell.

There are things in life ...

There are things in life
that you destroy by putting into words.

Like the flower you find in the forest
and do not bring home with you:

Even though,
in the glory of its final hours,
it would lend credibility to your story,
you leave it alone.

Even though
you are sure that no one else
would venture as deep into the same woods,
you leave it alone.

Even though
you feel that you may never again
find its equal,
you leave it alone.

You do all of this
because there are things in life
that must be lived.

And the living of them
is as important to these things
as your decent into the woods
is to the flower you find.

These things cannot be experienced any other way. Those who understand this also understand this other truth: that there never would have even been a flower except that someone looked for one.

Balloons!

Driving in to work this morning, I watched the balloons rise with the sun. I should say, rather, that I enjoyed the thought of them rising. We think of things like these rising, but our eyes tell a different story than our minds. It occurred to me then that if I ever wanted someone else to know what it was like to dance, really dance - and I mean someone who is not a dancer, fundamentally - I would take them up in a balloon. There, surrounded by the cool, clear air, we would watch the landscape spread out beneath us, and, even if our problems were the size of a house, we would watch them recede into the distance until they could be covered by a single hand. There, we would soak up the energy that comes with elevation and, as we descended again, we would know that we were carrying back with us something beautiful, something precious, something that had accepted its smallness and its impermanence as prerequisites for something greater than itself.

Maestro

You are the stone
thrown into the pond,
the soil spread over the seeds,
the clouds building on the horizon.

As you withdraw from the surface,
you will not know of the waves
you have created,
but they will be there.

As you are absorbed,
you will not know of the branches
that stretch toward the sky,
but they will be there.

As your tears fall
through the silent air,
you will not know
of the desert below
or of its thirst,
but they will be there.

And as the pond
becomes still again,
as the stone and the sky
are united in its reflection,
as they sit down in the shade,
as they begin to drink,
they will know
it was you.

Bacon Grease

Bacon grease always seemed the happiest to me in a hot pan. I remember my mother pouring the bacon grease into a jar after the bacon was done cooking. Finding a place for it in the fridge. I imagine that bacon grease now: too cold to flow, waiting to be used, wanting to be used, eager to find out what it would become when it was returned to the pan.