Transitioning to Grace

I wish I could tell you
or even myself
what happened
watching the moon rise
full over Mascoma Lake last week
my heart in lodged in my throat
my mind completely silent
but for the attention
to the mechanical buzz of light
that has taken up residence
in the connective fibers of my body.

In that almost November wind
the urgency to touch anything warm
to the palms of my hands
and the deep ache in my side
were finally quiet.
The air, full of the crisp coolness of fall,
went undetected by nostrils or nerves that might
register cold, even the light of the bright moon
became filtered, less brilliant
by the changing landscape of my heart.

I am numb in this place of cross currents and unsure
of what comes next.
I feel the soul’s trapped wisdom
in this newborn body,
where the exposure to the elements
rips my unwilling flesh raw.

I wish I could sing, chant,
celebrate this non-attachment,
but instead I moan with grief.

If only I could remember why I started
toward this big water,
perhaps then I might understand
why I am left alone again,
unable to make my way home.