Like Trees

Imagine how colorless, how stripped

of flavor life would be if we all 

showed up perfect.  What would perfect 

even look like?  Starched white blouses

pleated black slacks, never a weed

or a tangle, sentences 

written to bland, cleaned up
perfection, on the very first draft  

No - thank you. 

This idea 

of perfection makes me nervous

makes me think it's not 

okay for me to fall. Your willingness

to stand up dripping, deep in the center 
of the storm, gives me permission 
to stand up again

and again - no matter how deep
the puddle. What I want is 

for us to lean into each other 
listening

while our heart bleeds 

for the thousandth time - before 

we have a chance to clean up

or get rid of. I want to know what spilled 

out in that middle of the night draft 

how many times you declared it bad

before you could see the good in it - before 
you could see the God 
in it

  

Please - don't say the right thing 

say what's true - I don't want 

your manners, I want you 

in full, stormy, vibrant, mismatched

wrinkled, alive color. Before

you brush your hair or rub sleep 

from your tired eyes

before you catch 

your breath. I want to know 

what it is you keep hidden

tight in a drawer - what it is you keep almost 

saying

but don't. Come 

let us walk barefoot

through weeds, through 

thick layers of tired

let's show up late and frazzled, let's 

say the wrong thing, let us confess 
that sometimes we have no idea 
where to look or  how 

to find each other or God 
or ourselves

in any of it

let's rest like trees, leaning

and listening into each other 
until the hard

of our bark softens

until 

there is nothing

to find - only everything 

to be

*Photographer unknown