The edge of things
We stay out here on the edge of things,
unsure of the names given to all that lives,
unsure of our own names.
We stand outside because of fear
and because we are sure that we will be
bent and broken by engaging
the interruptions that capture
our attention with their undeniable
urgency and power.
We believe it is easier to mourn
when we are far away and that is our mistake –
we misunderstand the nature of that
mourning. We believe it is for our sake.
It is not. It is for the sake,
the salvation of Mystery,
of what we cannot approach
except by a holy route that takes us,
and takes from us our certainty.
We live on the edge of things, frail
and afraid. I do not know any answers
but I know that a clasped hand feels.
Here. Give me yours.
--Patti Frankel