Concerning the book that is the body of the beloved. By Gregory Orr
To feel. To feel, to feel. Failing that why live. Might as well, be a coffin drifting on a gray flood. The feel of not to feel. That counts to anguishes one clear sign. We're still here. But we all need help. The Beloved's there and the world also. And then there's the book poem after poem song upon song and all with the same chorus.
Wake up you're alive.
Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad. Or the old parable, my wife likes to tell. Good luck, bad luck, who knows? We're deep in the mystery of it. And it's deep in us. Loss behind. The unknown ahead. Lifting up the light or the poem, like a lantern. Stepping out bravely into the dark.