Poem: There is Nothing Tidy Here

There is nothing tidy here
life is too broad and billowing
to be contained,
restrained,
confined,
constrained
by lists and wishes
and well-laid plans,
or even by thin and bloodless prayers.
There is nothing tidy here,
expect wild winds and sharp teeth
amid the violets and sunrises.
There is nothing tidy here,
the world a great jumble
of twining grapevine,
sprawling brambles,
winding roots,
and beating hearts.
There is nothing to do
with such an untidy world,
but whirl with the wonder of it all,
keeping your hand outstretched
to touch everything,
even if your feet bleed
and your skin is streaked
with sorrow and joy. 

Last weekend, I was thinking about how to conclude the book I am writing, how to finish it, how to know it is done, how to wrap it up tidily, with some kind of moral or lesson for living, some kind of final conclusion of "figuring it all out." In the quiet moments as I questioned, walking around in circles on my back deck, I received a reply that then became a poem: there is nothing tidy here.

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