How proud we are

How proud we are
to distinguish
among our illusions,
preferring this over that,

how possessive
of the wind in our hands,

the dogs of our minds
barking after squirrels,
“I am not this!”
“I am not that!”

But the blood-red rose
unfolding in our hearts
knows better
and calmly rejoices
at the stone
that is also the grief
that is also the stranger
that is also God.

                               —May 3, 2016

It carries you

You are not bearing a burden;
it carries you.

You are not crying out;
it speaks you.

They are not strangers
but bits of yourself you have not yet gathered.

The night is dark
but a path reaches out.

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