Peonies

BY MARY OLIVER This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers and they open — pools of lace, white and pink — and all day the black ants climb over them, boring their deep (read on)

Yellow Bowl

BY RACHEL CONTRENI FLYNN If light pours like water into the kitchen where I sway with my tired children, If the rug beneath us is woven with tough flowers, and the yellow bowl on the table rests with the sweet heft of fruit, the sun-warmed plums, If my body curves over the babies, and if (read on)

Move to the City

BY NATHANIEL BELLOWS live life as a stranger. Disappear into frequent invention, depending on the district, wherever you get off the train. For a night, take the name of the person who’d day yes to that offer, that overture, the invitation to kiss that mouth, sit on that lap. Assume the name of whoever has (read on)

Wonder Cabinet

BY TINA CHANG I opened the silver pronged evening and translated the great song of the Industrial Age. Each night I hoped it would tell a different ending. Each time it sang a song, sadder than I would have imagined. I heard it, not only when I put all my perspectives away on shelves, until (read on)

Self As Kintsukuroi Art

BY TERESA MEI CHUC I tell myself what I could not before: I am gold as sun as daffodil petals and dandelion flowers gold as rivers that run along the sides of this pottery sealing illuminating its brokenness in the coming into myself again I let the fractures in my heart be cracks through which (read on)

With That Moon Language

— Hafiz Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.” Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise someone would call the cops. Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect. Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye that (read on)

The Well of Grief

— David Whyte Those who will not slip beneath the still surface on the well of grief turning downward through its black water to the place we cannot breathe will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins thrown (read on)

For What Binds Us

— Jane Hirshfield There are names for what binds us: strong forces, weak forces. Look around, you can see them: the skin that forms in a half-empty cup, nails rusting into the places they join, joints dovetailed on their own weight. The way things stay so solidly wherever they’ve been set down— and gravity, scientists (read on)

The Guest House

—Jelaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.  A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat (read on)

Sweet Darkness

—  David Whyte When your eyes are tired the world is tired also. When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you. Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own. There you can be sure you are not beyond love. The dark will be (read on)

For the Interim Time

As far as you can, hold your confidence. Do not allow confusion to squander This call which is loosening Your roots in false ground, That you might come free From all you have outgrown. — John O’Donohue This magnificent tribute to the in-between is the genius of Niya Christine, a dear friend and wise woman. Here (read on)

Black Friday Night

— Ryan Scariano My jade plant start loves the logic of streetlamps. She wants to prosper, to grow under the moonlight. She wants to shine off the gleam in the snow. She feels what I feel burning in the soft electric glow from the Christmas lights across the road. She wants to bloom. For her, (read on)