a little
in the mist
I trust that every human reading this is in the midst of significant dissolving
and letting go
or seeing what needs to let go
or grieving what is gone.
And the waters, they roar and clear and cry.
And the land holds us
whether we rush across its surface or bow in praise to its roots.
The land holds us and receives
what unravels from our minds, releases from our skin,
untethers from the stories we’ve idolized as trees.
And the sky is witness.
And the sky is map.
And the sky holds us, too, as we spin.
We’re all inside the spin, dissolving.
We see what we see.
And that’s only a little.
Your neighbor sees a little.
That celebrity you follow sees a little.
Your ancestors see a little.
Those people you call delusional see a little.
And you see a little.
We’re all in the mist.
Our seemingly separate little apertures are pores for collective breath.
They are holes, not holdings.
Portals of passage for threads of sky none of us can see—
Light weavings,
Stretch and tickle of stars,
In, out, tumble, arc.
The awe of it.
The tapestry of our dissolving.
How each little hums the whole.
How the land still holds us.
And the waters, how they sing.
*
as delight, Melissa
mist from the top of Diamond Hill in Connemara National Park
Connemara National Park
sculpture from Brigit’s Garden (near Galway, Ireland)
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