Finding the Question
Is it the wind from the cedars
brushing the wet ground,
the nests of the wrens
tucked into the rock’s eve?
Is it the storm over the horizon
willing the dark night
to lighten with change?
Is it the old love unrequited
still burning underground,
the bitterness of what I wish
I didn’t say or lose threading
through branches in winter?
from the branches in winter?
Is it the land across the open
ocean where blues blends blue?
Is it the slim river I dream of,
remembering finding it just east
of this nighttime house
as if it was always there?
Is it my father’s voice on the phone
just before he died, saying,
What can you do?
or the yearning the girl I was
carried in her scared arms?
Is it the name we go by,
and the note that name rings?
Is it the way we lift our arms
over our heads to give up
or ask for help? Is it god
or the ceiling fan, nightfall
or the wheeling of stars
shivering me here tonight?
Is it the love for the earth
I didn't know I was?
