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;
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.