It's Like This

It’s Like This


It’s like this, young one.

It’s hard to describe, young one.

It’s got no set shape,
though I’ve seen it look
like a smiling cat, a
rinse water wet plum,
and a pair of hands
pulling weeds.

It’s got no special sound,
though I’ve known it to
sing forth from a cello string,
and heard it said that
she can pray best
in silence fully alive.

There is no one feeling for her.
Sometimes it’s like a river stone,
shaped by cool refreshment.
Other times he takes on the contours
of sad mountains weeping
in loss and searching for hope.

It’s like this, young one.

It’s hard to describe, young one.

Peace is hard to describe
in words on a page.
Better to look inside
next time she whispers her name
between the beats of your
strong and noble heart.


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