When my body stopped

striving, when my mind

ended its chatter, I noticed

the swallows glide

and swoop, heard their wings

paint the silence, felt

myself start to fly.

“…inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce, and that is who we are.”

                                     -Anthony Marra, A Constellation of Vital Phenomena

 

That word can only be lived,

not shaped by the lips, not pressed

out by the tongue, but expressed,

syllable by syllable, each time

we encounter our essence

in the wilderness or open

wide to love, each time

we weep with deep sorrow or feel

truth’s wings flutter, each time

we meet souls who mirror our own

or give without return, each time

we stop trying to pronounce that word

we wouldn’t understand anyway.