THE FRAME

What you see or think you see

is not the complete composition.

It is a work-in-progress at best.

What seems like the edge of the canvas

is only where the brush strokes left off.

The artist just stepped away

from the easel momentarily.

They’ll return. You can count on it.

There is still more texture, color,

nuance to come.

So don’t be in such a rush just yet

to clamp the painting into that frame

you’re clutching. It’s too soon.

Periphery is illusion,

like foreshortening is.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

So why not broaden yours?

Make room for what you can’t see.

For what hasn’t happened yet.

THE BOTTLE

A day will come

when some dormant part of yourself

awakens, is called forth

like a genie from a bottle,

because something or someone

touches you so deeply 
that that part can no longer 
remain contained.

Once released

no amount of coaxing

can get the wisp you just were

back into the bottle.

It is in the world now

and you see it

as something

familiar, unrecognizable

and formidable.

And then you wonder:

How did it ever happen

that such a potent part

was bottled up in the first place,

kept prisoner for so long

and inside something so small?

And then you realize:

that the idea of containment

is itself a small thing, a word, a vessel

that you either fill with meaning or not.

There’s the rub.

And once you get that then you know

there is no limit to the number

of wishes you can make.

THE BELL

When it’s just us,

ourselves alone,

we know what we mean.

No explanation’s required.

Our thoughts are like a bell we hear

without actually ringing it.

Source always knows itself.

But it’s rarely just us.

To be part of

this whirligig of a world

we must engage with it.

We must play nice

and parley ourselves into it,

make ourselves accessible

to “non-natives,”

so they can know who we are

and, with a little luck, know 
what we mean

when we speak our minds.

For this to happen

we must translate ourselves

as best we can.

We must turn the bell

into a ringing thing.

We must really ring it.

We must make conversation.

And when we do

we are often met
with this little rejoinder:

Did you hear something?

Was that a bell?
What kind of ringing is that?

I wonder where it's coming from?

And so it begins: the business

of making ourselves understood.

Clang goes the bell.

THE TROPHY

You can

but why would you–

carry it

like a trophy–unforgiveness?

Why would you

polish it, like

Aladdin’s lantern?

Why?

No genie will emerge

from this lamp.

Because there is no

magic here.

Only sadness

and regret.

Choose a different

trophy. Please!

Make this

choice

your polish,

your Pledge.