How the Lightning Charges You

I’ve been out catching ideas,
my mind like fireflies—
careful to punch some air in the jar,
to let them breathe,
knowing I can’t keep them caged too long

I’ve been out walking fields,
collecting sunrises,
being still and quiet,
which is how the lightning charges you
and empty spaces change you

I’ve been going to secret places
shared only by the initiated—
there in the skin of the forest,
in the respiration of leaves
and branches
and trunks

I’ve been listening through that hum,
that song,
that quiet

I’ve been waiting for the morning
to roll back
and reveal everything—
all the questions prized,
held so close in our hearts,
clutched like something beloved
and nearly lost,
the kind you have to pry for,
like digging into dry earth

But I’ve been trying not to dig too hard, either—
to keep my hand light on the shovel,
my foot soft on the dirt

I’ve watched a finch dive-bomb its own body,
its wing pulled close,
so that for a moment
it floated and fell
like a torpedo catching itself

I watched a butterfly float
without batting her wings once

I didn’t know they could do such things:
catch some unseen breeze
like an eagle riding a rising thermal

I watched her wheel around me
while a wren bird-called the morning, wondering

How long can everything wait
with such anticipation?
How is everything so patient?
The rocks, endlessly babbled by the brooks
The banks of the river rising and falling
The oak roots crawling imperceptibly
The squirrels, endlessly storing up for winter

How long can hearts such as ours
catch grief and joy from the air—
like daggers,
like firefly light—
waiting for the cresting dome
of the next sunrise?