Soul Changing
By
Radiance Angelina Petro

At the end of the day, we are all
light-seeking. In this world of seeming
and guessing, the impulse towards ever-spring
unfolds the flower of longing.

We all know about withering and the falling
of petals. We know pain determines so much.
We know winter is coming, and so we turn
towards the warmth of the fire.

Time secretly aligns seeds towards the sun.
No matter how long we sleep love is waiting—
taking slow, simple sips of pure contentment.

Darkness is the point of departure. It is soul-
changing, and love uses it to encourage us to enter
the struggle upwards. We must be willing

to accept surprises. Surprises, like why-questions
suddenly unriddled, surprises like eternity,
surprises, like the ever-spring unfolding
the flower into love’s waiting hands.

The Forest of Tulsi
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The forest of Tulsi, where Krishna danced,
is still there opening to a hundred roads.

What does it matter—iron age, silver age,
bronze, or golden? We’re all dressed like Radha.

The inaccessible one shakes off the world.
The bed of the one without a second is waiting for you.

Sailing at Night
By
Radiance Angelina Petro

I seem to sail only at night.
The arrow of my misbehaving compass
jiggles, the cherubs at the edges of the maps
blow too many winds. And yet,
somewhere is the almost unbelievable shore,
and I am being drawn there by the tones
of a sonorous bell.

The Smooth Bed of Eternity
By
Radiance Angelina Petro

It’s a soft beginning to the day—just the sky making
invitations to live into its breathing. From then on
my practical life is gone.

Everyday inclines towards the marvelous,
and so, my heart careens towards the sun,
turning my objectives upside down.

Meanwhile, my wants lead me
where there is nothing to do except
participate in them all.

Sometimes, with the wear and tear
of seasons, my fear blocks the entrance way
to light.

You see, I want a soft ending—where I’m lifted,
like a child, from the vestiges of memory,
to where all that is left is the smooth bed of eternity.

Saint John’s Tide
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Give your darkness over to the fire.
Your heart breaks anew watching Summer’s breath
diminish in a blaze of the ever-renewing soul.
Release your little fires that defy gravity,
their bursting snaps flashing, sounding into the night.
The bliss of the harvest is at hand.

Make Them Anyway
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The dead ring out of their bodies, like
tones from a bell. Sometimes we have to
uproot from home to follow the unfamiliar way.
There are still uncreated lights, and the strangers
you pass whisper: “I am you.” Live into the day.
Speak in movements. The joy of the lesson
never mastered leads to realizations of the beautiful.
The love-vowels you make when singing
diminish with distance. Make them anyway.
And when you leave, the praying mantis
in the garden will turn its face and watch you go.

Go All In
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The arum flower has one petal.
Skunk cabbages leave the jackets
of their bodies open to keep the air
flowing inside them.
There are a thousand species of rhododendron,
and luna moths make their homes
in hickory trees.

These are all God-wished,
and the mental prayers
of seasons.

There is fatigue in resting.
Move and be energized.
Rise and thoughts scatter, like minnows.
It’s a free-thinking day. Go all in.
Add the facts of your life to the mix.
The world is not done.

We Began with Kisses
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

This poem takes place on an open-minded day.
A day full of no longer and not yet,
of sassafras trees, of the bobber going down,
the wind’s liaisons with cornfields, the imagination
spread every which way, of time maintained
in the redwood’s branches, of the afternoon’s heyday,
and the many modifications of optimism—little by little
we spin ourselves into cocoons as we change
the four-fold truths revolving around suffering
into joy’s well-founded proposals and sighs.

Writing in the Dark
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Contrary to popular belief, the pages
in your book of life are not numbered. There are, however,
reckonings, and many parenthetical days. And while the writing
is sometimes Joycean, filled with commas and question marks,
run-on sentences with so many reiterated moments,
it is serviceable and somehow legible
after the fact. There are moths nibbling the previous
chapters, and the abiding wind is always
flipping through the pages losing your place,
so be sure to keep your book in a safe, dry place.
Your propensity for nouns is to be expected,
your verbs, strident and agile, are often also nouns,
and as much as you would like to believe otherwise,
there are no errors—neither to the imagination
or the days when you ignore the margins.
The wolf and the deer running throughout do so
on moral grounds. The horizon is far-minded, time
ephemeral. Don’t even ask about grammar or tenses.
When you go, the world will keep writing
your story. In lieu of this, meander more, study
the pedagogy of caterpillars and butterflies, dabble
in novel things, use as many flourishes
as you want, use inhabited initials at the beginnings
of paragraphs, secretly write under your blanket
at night. You are, after all, heliocentric,
giving just enough light to write in the dark.

At the Edge of the Field
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The broadminded morning slowly sips
the last of the night. The eye in the forehead
is flaxen gold. Left-over masala dosa for breakfast
is like eating truth.

Today is honeycombed
and smitten with flowers—the purple iris,
the morning glories, the tiger lilies.

When your mind tries to finagle in notions
of why you don’t deserve such beauty,
the freewheeling wind says: “You are part
of the sweetness. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Imagination is out sightseeing,
the willow lollygags in the sun,
the blue-eyed day, the quizzical robin,
the wolf, the deer—they’re all waiting for you
at the edge of field.