S t a i n e d

In the way that fruit has stained my hands
beauty has stained my eyes

wherever I look the evidence overwhelms me
to the point of exhaustion

whatever I touch opens up, as Rumi says,
worlds within worlds within worlds

why then do I flounder in the midst of it all?

Why do the stone and the shell and the pine-cone
speak of limitations?

These are the contradictions of the world
I inhabit

where what can be celebrated is not what can be
understood

but must be lived with and embraced.

So, my voice will wither in its singing —
but from unknowing or praise?

Who can know, who can determine the end
of all things?

It does not matter, the longevity of beauty is without
measure

and it is enough that I am stained m this manner
freely acknowledging

that whether I sing or stumble or fall
such beauty is my burden and my blessing.