You must train yourself to feel that love
what love?
that love,
the one that shivers, sometimes,
between the planks of your old chest
that says there now, you remember me,
the love that sang through the lullabies of your childhood-
simple songs
that sunk deep.
the love that that carried you through
certain sunny days in summer, in spring
that makes
fleet your feet and
wild your eyes.
if you look closely at old photographs,
you'll see it-
relics from the impossible safety,
before you shut your chest to its warm undulations
Just try it:
set aside those three sins of accumulation
(weariness, age, pain)
the weights which pale the blood of life
over time.
joy is the deepest sort of vulnerability
and is born of this practice:
sitting at a table
drinking tea
as the light comes through a cracked-open window,
cracking into that small space inside of you
where still hums the warm wildness,
where still breathes that sleeping beast