When the sun turns

his attention to the river

after a long winter,

she rolls over, exposing

turquoise belly,

her silent strength ready

to gush, to twinkle

at the brilliance

of his smooth, slow touch.

“When does wholeness happen?”

I asked the dry grass poking through

the snow, and I sat, waiting

for the answer, but the grass did not

speak and neither did the snow.

 

I looked up into the sky without clouds,

asking what it feels like to be whole,

but the sky just kept staring at me

and never acknowledged the question.

 

I touched the tree’s bare branches

and asked, silently this time, “Will I

ever be whole?” The tree wrapped

cold limbs around me and whispered,

“Keep asking questions, but stop

looking for answers.”

 

And as we stood there together,

swaying, I laughed as I realized

that wholeness does not just

happen, and that I already know

exactly what it feels like.

On that bench, still,

for the first time

in weeks, my heart quit

shouting and whispered,

“Thank you for stopping.”

 

Truth slipped in with each

breath, shining its light

in every shadowed corner.

 

Moon tickled the river,

illuminating the freedom

rising to the surface

with each rush of laughter.

 

Stars stood firm, refusing

to spell out answers,

instead, begging me

to shine with courage.

 

Geese, coasting homeward,

honked reminders:

more being, less doing,

more heart, less head.

 

And now, lying in this bed,

unable to sleep,

I wish I was still

on that bench.