It happened while sitting at
the kitchen table yesterday morning.
A buttery bloom of sunshine spread slowly
across my left shoulder
and I turned my head toward its warmth.
In the middle of the table sat
the pink peonies I had cut
the day before when, barefoot,
I had run out
in the wet of morning
to gather them in my arms
as if I were in a Mary Oliver poem.
It was then that a shaft of light caught
the petals just so,
like a hand of pastel vellum playing cards,
they were spread
layered and lovely.
I sighed.
Then, again, as we watched the leaves of the
sycamores and the cottonwoods flip
in the rushing wind.
It really is true that,
when rain is coming,
their pale undersides show,
like viridescent fortune tellers.
Just as our faces fall
all tender and open
before tears.
I suppose I should give myself over to
this gorgeous ache more often.
Lift my folded wings and show my underbelly
in all its lovingness.
Tumble all awkwardly into that deep joy pool
So that, perhaps,
I might find you there.
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
