Roasted Hopes in a Microwave

Each day

I’ve learned that
from falling to rising, there is but one step,
as from darkness to light, a single blink.
But how often do we blink?
So often we no longer see the darkness,
but only the light. And this is being awake.
So it is in life.
Happiness is not the absence of sorrow, but
the turning from sigh to smile which happens
quicker, easier, softer, deeper, more naturally,
almost like breath. And this, each day.
Each day we can gain—or lose—the Light.

An ivy in silence

It's clear to me.
I don't have to crawl
into the small compact sieve of doubt
to understand what I have to do.

The entrails of the night
do not belong to me, only the sunrise
which I cannot keep without adding
the imprint of the hands with which I learned
to paint what was given to me:
an angel
that I cover with the love of a newborn
when I take it out of the womb of my eternity
and a repetitive verse that I spread with a thin brush,
like a thread of water falling from the eye.

Mostly,
this is me: one in love with
poetry that does not crush the outstretched hand of God.

And that is why I hope that
we, who love the blind touches of the morning,
will find ourselves together, swimming
like ivy in silence
towards the peak of our existence,
where there is no more fear.

When the wolves come in packs
to endure the abyss
in the wasteland of a candle
until you hear every wheel turning,
until you feel every bump in the surface,
until you know every place where
tears and saints are made, and most importantly
to believe that you can last another day,
until the howling passes.