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The Patio Gods

Thank you

To Mary Oliver & Robinson Jeffers & Amos  


Yes the rain falls and you are bloody wet.

Yes your mother leaves you.

Yes your bike gets stolen, the basement floods, fuses blow,

trees die, and the cement Buddha that you worshipped

a bit ironically all year cracks and disintegrates.          


Do you weep when the wind bangs on the windowpane?         

Does it matter

that the best of shoes wear down and fall apart;

photographs get ruined;

that sometimes nothing can be fixed?


Then, do you then, curse God and all Buddhas

or anything that comes after?


What if your destiny was not marred by anything

your great uncle did or did not do in the Great War?

What if no one cares that you never finished school?

What if your overblown body beached on the back patio

never waits for you to get it right

before wrinkling, rotting, and dying?


What if when you wake

in the night

and wind charms are ringing

out there in the yard

for no one in particular—

maybe a passing raccoon—?

Pretend for a moment,

for one half second of your little life

that you are not terrified, angry, worried, or alone.


So what if the stars fall and earth lies barren

so there is ever just this

infinitesimal spec of you

anytime everywhere in our sad universe;

that morphs wherever space goes to morph;

that flew south without

coming back in the spring;

that overthrew its banks;

that makes the garden muddy

or so hardpan,

or so seed begins its holy arc toward light,

or toward the black hole,

or the red dwarf and other universes

or the mountains, or the sea

or the mess, or the moment;

so what.


Tell yourself that rain is also water,

that sitting is breathing,

that waking is also a dream

about trees that bloom and fruit

and drop and die, and go back, and move forward

to all that is good and gone and

you have to do nothing

for words to open your mind  

and let go and love.

Love is also.

Posted 03/15/15
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