Sad and lovely.
It is not only in this striving for more than I am
than I have
than I think I am capeable of.
It is not only this dream, this heaven-like dream
which would, after all require utter metamorphisis
of what we are
and the lives we live
and the choices we make.
Am I ready to bask in the warmth of their love?
But it is also this right-hereness-and-nowness
A dirtiness flimsiness substanitality
It is more than a thing made precious in spite of
so much pettiness impatience and greed.
Will I be able to pretend that I basking in the warmth of their love?
Will I be able to put it all away for a few minutes?
Will the show make it real?
Will the real make it show?
It wouldn’t be wholly true
to say that it is all made precious because of
so much pettiness impatience and greed
Perhaps the delicious disappointments
arise from this tension this attention
we are not what we could be
and yet we are enough to know that we could be.
Despite all my yesterday’s promises I haven’t crawled far out of the mire
and yet I am ever so slowly crawling out of the mire.
A greatness a nobility resides
not so much in us
as in our aspiration to greatness and nobility.
I am a gnat leaping into the darkness
only the faint promise of the far side of the canyon
falling and leaping falling and leaping falling and leaping.
The eagle which soars across the gulf between what is and what might be
is so much more than us,
it is not.