The Impossible

author’s note:

Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.
           — Mary Oliver


THE IMPOSSIBLE

“Love” doesn’t seem to be word enough
when talking about love.
We need a magical mix of language—

a perfect concoction
that would coalesce to create a golden wand—
an instrument that could open our hearts
with just a touch—
open us to the secret
of what we truly feel.

We’d return to that eternal alloy
again and again and again
and each time experience
the same soft explosion of emotion.

A revolution of empathy—
we’d turn and turn
and turn into
the better version we need to be
in order to survive
this calamity we’ve made.

No, forget what I just said—
that dream was dreamt by the child I once was
—not me.
Even the mystics
who created those ritual songs and texts
failed to do the impossible.

Maybe I still seem to be trying.
Well, I am and I’ll tell you why:

in this slow tedious labor
occasionally, I accidentally
touch my heart.
Yes, I touch my own heart.
And during those brief openings
I feel the secret—
I feel
just how deeply I love us.

mythsteps · The Impossible

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