I’d like to be a reed or a hollow bone ~ a portal of of grace for you
so that if you held me in your hands I’d be smooth and imperfectly curvy – but you could see past the shadows when you held me to your eye
Oh go ahead: blow me like a shofar – or shout a mighty “ah hoy matey!” Or pretend you are the Pied Piper and I am the piccolo.
At least then I’d make you smile
But if I keep emptying myself, what is left of me? Would I sacrifice all those decades of trying to cram a little substance into the lonely, the pleaser, the marshmallow fluff of vanity
Such paradox is beyond my comprehension
And you? Are you opening or filling yourself up? Are you trying to “get out of the way” or to run over with intention and character and wisdom?
If you are a shell or a bone, have you tossed yourself out like parade candy to your precious, adoring fans?
If you are a gatherer, you might want to give up on Cheetos and nonfat lattes
Whatever we are, or are not, I know this: I started this poem expecting it to be about opening and letting go, my hardest spiritual task
But in the end I’m left wondering what makes up a soul