Universal Breathings
It has been ages since I’ve felt at all inspired to write a poem. Just now, compiling a list of song lyrics for my friend Jen, I started writing a poem that tumbled out of me so effortlessly that I had to post it immediately after finishing it.
There are mornings when I feel the universe breathing—
a gentle thrum that assures me that sometimes existence is its own goal.
There are nights when I see the transitory nature of all things,
and I can almost forgive myself for things I never did.
I may have never seen the world in a grain of sand,
but I’ve seen the meaning of it all in a baby’s eyes.
I’ve heard choruses of angels in the sobs that made my shirt
wet with broken notions of how my dreams should be.
I’ve felt the subtle rhythm of the whole thing
dancing alone on a noisy dance floor.
I’ve understood the mercy of watching foolish dreams die
at three a.m. with no one to hold you
but nearly everyone ready to hold you up.
I’ve known the completeness of existence itself with
a purring cat on my lap and a warm cup of coffee beside me.
If the world is truly in a grain of sand,
then is saving the world all that hard?
I’ve saved the world at five in the morning,
walking with a friend whose world had just crumbled.
I’ve saved the world at midnight,
paying for a dinner that no one could afford.
I’ve saved the world at noon,
quietly carrying boxes to help a friend start a new life.
I’ve saved the world at three in the afternoon,
hooking up jumper cables to a truck that only poverty could afford.
No moment is really any better than any other moment
because the whole damn thing blends together into something
so perfect and beautiful that you finally understand the true meaning
of divinity, infinity, and the universe itself.
There are mornings when I feel the universe breathing—
a gentle thrum that assures me that sometimes existence is its own goal.
There are nights when I see the transitory nature of all things,
and I can almost forgive myself for things I never did.