All the ways we are broken stun me. I trust them all; I trust none of them. It’s miraculous we move through days, tangles of loss and wounds. Every year we are shadowed. We disappoint ourselves, we disappoint one another. We struggle for sleep or release, see only cracks. I used to think over meant beyond. Now I think it means before crossed with open. I stayed up late to see the strawberry moon make highways of ocean. In its brightness the trees were like sentries, a solitary fox crept past. Every year, I am slower. Every year, more mud and shadows. And yet, dandelions. And yet, oil slicked puddles glint prisms. And yet winds carry both rot and baking. Something is missing. Even now, something is on its way. These hands are only instruments. These hearts are merely organs. Praise the moment beyond blink. Play them, full to bursting.
By Ruth Dickey