To see, the way a coneflower sees
a carpenter bee, vibrating with hunger
and need. To need, the way a stone requires
rain, wind, time, and gravity’s pull.
To pull, the way a birch pulls from its core
without practice or instruction, bends to
grass with grace, forgiving the wind’s trespasses.
To forgive and hold firm, as the goldfinch
on the thin, swaying stalk of millet in March.
To shine as this same finch when summer comes,
flashing sun on broken glass, loop of golden air.
To hear, the way the mole hears, through every hair,
the next shining moment of the underground day,
a lighthouse made of sound, life at the root.
Editor’s Note: This poem’s clear imagery welcomes the reader into optimism while the title hints of how difficult such an intention can be.
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