In the instant that it takes my lips to close
Around the stem of my lungs’ self-destruction,
I realize that I do not understand
The hopeless and despairing.
The cherry is a bright point in the dim
Cold crack of morning air in Illinois.
Leaning on the grill of this
Enormous pulling engine of the plains,
The smell of diesel hot around my ears,
The satisfied fatigue of one more load complete
Compulsing next to happiness within me...
Joy, it seems, is quite a lot like faith,
You have it or you don’t, and all your life
Is spent in seeking what you must receive.
I admit, perhaps it’s that I’m young
And not too far from binding love
That swaddled me in positive abandon,
That let me walk in certainty and space.
This is a rare and precious thing,
This union of a woman and a man
That doesn’t choose to end itself in pain,
To ripple bloody bow-waves through the lives
Of innocent, unwary little things
Who find themselves in stranger lands
Where they expected beauty,
Light, and peace.
I have been favored, I have been highly-favored,
I’ve felt the rain of all things bright
And beautiful, things poured into my lap
From such gift-givers…
Such unspeaking, sacerdotal things.
I’m hobbled by the burden of my joy
And as I said,
I do not know what it could mean
To truly be without this weight of gold.