You want the ecstatic thing.
We cannot turn each other inside out,
though we might try.
The ecstatic thing is not in a moment’s
lost breath, muffled cry.
It is good, but short lived.
So short, it withdraws as a rushing tide.
And then we chase the wind,
the moon, the rain,
anything for more.
The ecstatic thing. The space between.
That I write and the poetry is over
while I’m catching up.
And I’m sorry, like the small deaths,
the petite morts we live.
The ecstatic thing is the still pause.
That we lengthen out like skeins of silk,
so long.
It’s the space between us.
The thought of the rain, the wind,
the dance.
If we close our eyes,
we can feel the moving,
rushing in, out.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
September 2020
Living Tree Poetry 