By Brooke Luby
I wish I had words to tell how the light filters through the tree branches in the forest,
or how quickly my anchored soul takes flight from this acknowledgment.
I wish I knew how to capture moments of contentment and store them up like dried
lavender,
pulling them out when I need the scent of something sweet and fresh in the middle of
winter.
I wish I knew a secret language,
belonged to a secret clan,
knew I was special all the time,
not just when my eyes focused out the mad world
and settled on the way a bed of pine needles feel
or how the stillness of the forest falls over me like silk pajamas,
embracing my flushed, peeling skin.
I wish I could bottle up each memory of certainty
(The brilliant green of the dancing trees, the day I woke up in the new skin of being in
love,
snow falling on distant headlights below, the night I woke up knowing impossible is
nothing)
and take a swig when I forgot how to breathe,
swaying and singing, drunk on alive-ness.
But for now I know my heart beats
I know that today is here, sunny and calm,
the grass continues growing without an ounce of mental strain
But I wish I could dig beneath this layer of self importance and unessential yearning,
and believe in the magic of this day
that this day the wind blows in a way it never has
that this day each moment is as a newborn,
precious and single minded and completely unique.
I wish I had the words to tell how the light shafts make their way into
the dark inner sanctums of my heart,
illuminating affliction
and the gorgeous freedom that follows.
Brooke is a writer and missionary who love long walks in the woods and trying to notice God in everything. Check out her book All Things Are Becoming New, a collection of poems.