hindsight

It was late when she decided
to read through years
of your words,
which are the memories,
which make up the experiences,
which are all that's left
from a wreckage of regret.

She saw with new eyes,
renewed perspective,
intelligence in each phrase and rhythm,
in every rise and fall,
in the cadences and spaces between words,
in each colliding emotion evoked,
in the hope, pain, clear-seeing, honesty, compassion,
terror, relinquishment, veracity, avalanche,
bitterness, courage, opening,
rage, free fall,
beauty.

Hindsight being 20/20,
it was only then that she fully understood -
your words,
separated now from the entanglement,
the wisdom,
as if it was glowing from the page.

It was a good read.

Each phrase reminded her
with deep appreciation
and keen sadness,
whom she loved

and why.

that moment

I am like a student of aloneness.
I rifle through pages of verse,
which speak of it.
I pore over dusty tomes of philosophy
and rhetoric,
In the dim lamp light,
My eyes dry and squinty,
I run over each line with my finger as if I'm searching
for deep treasure,
as if among these poets, philosophers,
mystics or fakes -
I might find a word,
a sentence even,
that will satisfy
this curiosity
of alone.

The school may be elusive,
bound up in dark cloud,
but not so harsh anymore.
I even try and come as close as I can.
I sit on my cushion cross legged
and wait
and wait
for that utterly blinding moment
that moment
( so beautiful )
when my aloneness transforms itself
into my closest
and dearest
comfort.

I'm lucky when this happens,
because it doesn't always.
But it drives me back to my seat again,
and again,
even kicking and screaming,
and sometimes terrified,
back to my alone school
because I so crave that moment.

Maybe that's a bad thing. Who can say?
But truthfully -
I crave it more than I have ever,
ever craved.