an offering

First Fall

Winter arrives with a white clap,

hand sprinkling slush and snow

to soak us into the season.

The pause: to drive, be driven, 

or to wait, draw out from the weather what we must.

This is enough. 

The rest will come.

I am holding here all that I have gathered, all that has been gifted, and 

the shapes of what was taken away.

I can keep holding endlessly

because I must.

And in that space I hold questions like this:

When have I felt the vicious sweet tug of domination over another, 

in words, in gestures, in the safe place I call my mind?

How have I been entitled, 

acted on that false sense

of being owed, 

forgotten that we are owed

nothing, and have only to give and hold, 

hopefully 

in balanced measure?

Am I really so different from those 

with weapons of metal, 

toxic slough of chemicals 

enough to destroy a life, 

a community, 

a world

When words, actions can wound too, 

can take away more

than can ever be replaced?

We were all children once.

The season shifts and I will go down the path this way, 

the one with the sign that says, 

Follow me. Step lightly. Remember:

To marvel at what I cannot understand,

for this will always be the way

To keep watch for miracles,

for these will always be on offer

To cry.

Make an imperfect lump with this fallen snow, 

think of how we are all fallen, 

And held.