Ideals

There’s a quiet thunder in the reaching,  

a heartbeat stretched across distances unseen.  

We dream in shapes we can’t yet hold,  

in colors too bold for our hands to draw.  

Ideals are clumsy things to carry,  

the edges sharp, the weight uneven.  

They tilt, they tumble, they spill over,  

leaving behind trails of what we intended.  

But what is life if not the reaching?  

The holy mess of falling short,  

the spark of almost in the darkness.  

It is the trying that stitches us together,  

thread by thread, day by day,  

even when perfection dodges the needle.  

We stand taller for the leaning forward,  

growing in the stretch of becoming.  

Without the yearning, the sky shrinks small,  

and even the stars forget their purpose.  

So we gather what courage we can muster,  

and try, fail, try again—always reaching.