Among the flowers and grasses, tiny yellow-and-brown things with wings land and take off, take off and land. Should I be worried that I do not know their names? I lift one of the things from a flower stained with its excrement—so small to have made such a big mess! Looking at this nameless thing strips me of all notions of superiority. I know that the day is coming when my own stains will be concealed by the undertaker’s art. But that day can wait. I still have stories to braid.
A woman sleeping
on a green park bench wakes up,
stretching and yawning.
Say yes to everything:
the moldy bread, the empty kettle, the dying fire;
yes to the anvil on which your life was forged;
yes to what you have wanted, but not gotten;
yes to what you have waited for, but not seen;
yes to the tattered edges of your cloak,
and your belly bloated with hunger,
while swallows feast on insects near the temple gates.
To everything say yes.
More The Whirligig #272
More Writers’ Pantry #26 at Poets and Storytellers United
Dandelion, Apache County, Arizona
A stone by the road
sets the scene
for the dance.
Farther down the road
a man without elbows
plays a flute
with his feet,
panting out wild notes,
and the desert,
which has waited
since it was created,
begins to stir.
than shrugging off the eons
to shimmy in the sun?