Menu

Poetry

I know a woman who, when she hears wise words
uttered, turns

her palms upward. She’s as likely to place her hands
on my shoulders,

to comfort. None of it for show. Palms upward,
she’s a basin.

Palms downward, a wellspring, rain.

May we be basin and well to each other.
May we be rainlight

and the winds that freshen the morning. May we
sleep as roots and bulbs

in winter, faithful to the quickening throb of inner
undoubtable being.

May we rise up in our love as a fire leaps and kindles.
May we hold our hands

to the fire and warm them. “Stand watch over this burning,”
Rumi says in one poem.

And in another, the fire itself, the fire that is fountainhead,
speaks:
“Come into me, and don’t mind the sparks.”


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

The Cartographer of Disaster

By

Kathleen L. Housley

far away shot of a city and freeway in twilight. everything in the image is bathed in a deep purple, violet twilight. on the freeway, the headlights of the car make little pinpricks of light. the sky hanging above the earth is dark purple nearest the ground and the trees, and then there is a burst of yellow and deep pink clouds under a pale sky the color of eggshells, just as a smooth, and dimming steadily.

Lord, Sky

By

Betsy Sholl

It’s Late

By

Gemma Gorga

Tuesday: Rhubarb, Lattice Crust

By

Becca J.R. Lachman

Pin It on Pinterest