This morning I listened to an interview
with poet Ada Limón. She spoke about
epiphanies and didactic endings
and how sometimes a poet must surrender
to the discomfort of unknowing.
How sometimes it is best to listen
to the world’s echoing heartbeat
and remain a solemn observer
rather than a sweating preacher.
There is a sanctity about the mountains
that my roaring yet mortal mouth
will never capture. All around me,
spirals of snow swirl toward the sky
like steam escaping from a kettle.
I let them glide through my human hands,
knowing I have been touched
by something bigger.
Ada’s words reminded me that it is okay
to be small. Wisdom is an elusive thing;
if I try to capture it and plaster it
onto sunlit windows
with an arsenal of made up metaphors,
then maybe I am nature’s fool.
A balmy liar who extracts meaning
from thoughtless swallows.
Her words reminded me that it is okay
to not know. To profess a cluelessness
that runs deep in the ridges of your skin
and runs wet like the rivers of your blood.
When I looked out the window at lunch,
I saw a man huffing down the street
with an orange jacket and brown boots.
I tried to see him — the sway of his body
and the scowl on his face — rather than
the lessons he could teach. I didn’t know him.
I do not know him.