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It’s all a series of serendipities

with no beginnings and no ends.

Such infinitesimal possibilities

Through which love transcends.

(Ana Claudia Antunes, The Tao of Physical and Spiritual)

 

Serendipity on an Ordinary Friday

 

I have other plans,

agendas carved from time

not yet touched by day or night.

Instead, I meet a stranger

face to face,

eye to eye.

Five minutes after

your name, my name,

we recognize our common places

where the ugly and beautiful meet.

We, strangers before 10AM,

on an ordinary Friday,

speak, listen, and within twenty minutes

share an embrace.

Our skin colors appear different,

in the way two gifts,

both carrying gems,

don’t mimic their wrappings.

Today’s sun shines. It also casts shadows.

No longer strangers, she and I

have been blessed by light.

 

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Why do writers write? Because it isn’t there. (Thomas Berger)

In the past few weeks I have felt surrounded by people suffering with grief or unspeakable pain. Sure, I do what I can, but that desire to take a mystical Magic Eraser and blot it all out for them, is still there. I suspect that is normal. When all the listening I can do is completed, it’s time to let it go, revitalize for the next round.

I decide to pick up a magazine and read it cover to cover—blank out a bit. My husband is watching sports. I don’t know enough about the ways of any ball to join him in that outlet. Yes, my new “Writers Digest.” No, the second article suggests writing grief. Pffft.

Next ploy. A poetry jam. What’s that? It’s a group of writers who bring one poem each, read them aloud, then write another and share again. There just happens to be one on Tuesday evening. The group is open to any poet, but the five of us who arrive also know one another from another group; we can be honest about who we are. Sadness mingles with laughter, two sides of the same day, morning and evening, light and darkness. Every word I hear inspires.

One of the poets has written, beautifully, about a storm. My thoughts go to the candle that fills in when the electricity goes out, and I write:

A candle flame trembles in the darkness.

Its brightness is rich as it casts long, uneven shadows.

Modern lighting claims fewer flaws.

I take its clarity for granted,

but have more in common with the quivering flame.

Peace upon all, through all!

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