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Seeing in the Dark (poem): Everyday Magic, Days 350-351

Updated: Oct 3, 2023


Seeing In The Dark

Barn’s burnt down now I can see the moon

— Masahide, 1657-1723

After the fire, where next to turn?

Not the old words, aged with bitterness

or despair. Not habitual angers and griefs.

Not just a reflection of anyone’s new ideas.

But what’s right here: wind rising

through a tower of cottonwood.

Cicadas motoring their 17 year song.

Golden moon half revealed by

the silver of the passing cloud.

Good things, bad things happen.

News dissolves our vision of the world.

Not say what’s lost doesn’t make us ache

or strip our days of reds so vibrant

we forget what we were thinking.

But whatever is lost also brings us to this window

composed of the lush darkness, the rush

of wind or rain through the leaves,

the sudden chill dissolving the hot

anger or anguish, the pain of the questions that,

left unanswered, might divide us.

The music of the old house outlives the house.

We will make new murals out of the ruins,

mosaics from all that’s broken, stone soup

at the center of our next feast.

Nothing in this world vanishes.

Even ghosts, loved enough, turn into angels.

The dark shows us what calls

not at the edge of what we sense

but from the center of where we live.

Nothing can take away the power of the real.

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