~Maxfield Parrish

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