The holy disaster is a beckoning. Come.
Enter the fire of love and let it remake you
again and again.

—Mirabai Starr

I’m not looking for the sacred,
the holy, but it finds me unaware,
which is why, later, it occurs

to me that what shivered like
failure, tasted like disaster,
turns out to be an opening,

a beckoning toward the fire
that will anneal me, to first heat,
then cool me,

make me less brittle. In that
strengthening comes a softening,
a translucent spirit that

reshapes me in love, that nudges
me into humble forgiveness
of self. Come, whispers

the wintering sycamore,
naked for the moment. Stand
beneath me. Together we’ll

leaf into our newest selves,
offer shade to those who
think they’ve just happened

to walk by.