All the ways we are broken

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