The right way that cannot be spoken:
it’s the one I was taught when young,
when my teachers showed me their
favorite words and considered that
I might understand.
The ideas had so much talk behind them,
veneered with metaphors and symbolism.
They reminded me of church bells ringing
on Sunday mornings.
Almost anything one could see and
speak about would get swept away
in the ringing.
Thinking, and picking out single objects
floating by me in the world, could be
joined and made into a new way of
looking at the world’s old rhythms…
until that day when I came across the
first stab of suffering.
What had been so pretty and carried
so well was suddenly confused with
pain and darkness. Had somebody
made this up or could life really turn
ugly with no one giving a kid
warning? Then I knew about bells,
how they were meant for everyone,
not just for comforting those still listening.