The Reveries
“I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out: “It tastes sweet
doesn’t it?” "You caught me,” grief
answered, “And you’ve ruined my
business. How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it’s a blessing?”"
~Rumi
If thoughts think themselves
then what are we to believe
and where are the thoughts
we think for ourselves?
Are they the only ones we own
by having taken them to heart?
If so, then it must be the heart
that ultimately defines us.
If we put a thought out
of our mind because it
doesn’t suit our sense
of self, then who we are
boils down to a series
of rejections and denials,
choices and gravitations.
The trouble with hearts
is that they’re invariably broken,
tending to hold grief and joy
in equal measure;
the brighter the light,
the darker the shadow.
Maybe that’s why grief is
also love
and joy
a respite.
They say the present is
the only place to be
as anywhere else is illusory,
so I choose to hide out here,
the past being too beautiful
to revisit anyway
because the heart (being rent)
is an instrument that doesn’t see
clearly and is prone to poetics,
some might even say histrionics!
If you’re like me, you’ll hole up
in the last place the past will look
in order to keep sorrows
from gaining a foothold
because like grace, they’re both
fierce and ruthless when taking
up residence in the senses.
I can smell sorrow a mile away.
Though grief may taste sweet,
too much curdles any pallet.
The conventionals curse
disappointments
and glory in successes
even as another
might weep over success
and glory in tribulation.
Why? Because they realize
nothing can ever happen
the same way twice.
I could easily be someone who
lives in the past in a state of
perpetual reverie, if it were
not for feeling needed here.
One could even argue that everything
that ever occurred is still occurring
on some level and that
diving beneath the surface of
anything will only displace
one’s equilibrium.
Of all the rooms of triggers,
for myself
the woods are the worst.
Every tree is clearly out to get me.
A tree can make me cry quicker
than anything I can conjure.
Memories set traps in trees,
preferring to ambush their prey,
their likeness pressed upon our hands
like leaves in a book.
A crisp red leaf is
a dagger that can draw blood
from my eyes.
But only because
I see their death
as beauty.
If words strung together
constitute food for thought
then what we love to chew on
will shape us in its image.
And so I keep sorrows
like stones in my pocket
for tempering my disappointment
over what can be no more.
10/25/21
