Читать книгу The Wisdom of Wild Grace - Christine Valters Paintner - Страница 13

“O tell us poet, what is it you do?—I praise.”

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Praise be the words that spill and splash like a river

across granite, smoothing rough edges and singing of time

always moving, offering the thirsty world a drink.

Praise be the nouns that root us here on earth:

lemon and lilac, worm and wolf, your lips

and your hands, a paw print in the sand.

Praise be the places where poems hide:

the drawer of old socks, the kitchen window,

the dusty picture frame, and the keychain.

Praise be the verbs that invite us to new places

as we wiggle, wonder, wander, and wish,

flail, flagellate, flower, and fish.

Praise be the spaces between words that pause us

interrupt our headlong quest to arrive at some imagined future,

ask us to be a guest of this moment now.

Praise be the lines from poems that rise up

in the dark, meet me in my sorrow and shame

to bring a lantern, a working latch in the rusty gate.