When the mythical, wedding-veil
whites of the forest
have transitioned
to the green
that I know, I can forgive
all the sins of winter,
and perhaps even a
few of my own,
and I might
even get past this doubt
when the purple soul
of lilacs
shout:

Here, drink this
and let it fill you with
memories and power.

False starts.
I know them well.
You want to talk
about crazy,
about wounds,
about miniscule lives
compressed by fear?

I can do that,
forever,
and quite well,
because the shadows are
cheap and easy guides,
but this . . .

this is hard-core,
ultimate
beingness;
now, this
is advanced awareness;
this is being
a trembling
seed ready to join
the spectacle;
this is our
tattered heart
pushing to the surface
of the living world,
reaching for love—
any kind—
with Shakespearean ambition,
knowing we can't
change others but
we can mold worlds
made out of all
the mad and inexplicable love
we've ever wanted
because we are
that devotion

and the center
is everywhere in this
all-encompassing sphere
without end.

Those green leaves
snare a few wild stars
and now a swarm of them
are nesting
in the dark branches.

That's what I'm talking about.

We reach that far

and we're always home.


Patricia Joan Jones