Ache
(a response to Mary Oliver in her poem, “Messenger”)
You tell me my work in the world is gratitude
a bowing, a pointing to the sky
and noticing its blue
or the soft coat of a dog
or the timeless song of my children’s laughter
even as it fades
from memory, and you tell me to touch this heart’s ache
as it struggles to feel
enough joy, enough pain, and wonder
as this world remembers when it was new and good
and beautiful.
And I disagree.
For my work is more than gratitude. It is remembering
his arms around me
and the celebration of birth and love and all things
good and pure.
And where home is—my work is remembering home and aching
for it to come again, back to me.