making rooms

"Yes" is not a once-uttered word,
something seminal,
a lintel, never crossed again,
a passage made but never remade.

Yes is an entrance to the liminal,
a life lived on the threshold,
diving again and again and again
into an adventure you have agreed to.

Yes is moving in to a new room,
your mess slowly moving into place.
Your pictures framed, hung.
Your clothes arranged.
The one last holdout pile
of cough drops,
duct tape,
nail polish,
and taxes
finally stored away.

It's a slow arranging,
an endless commitment
to packing up and unpacking again.
To making what is not-yet come into being.

Yes is making room
for listening
for another voice,
not your own.

Yes is commitment to life as
dialogue,
not monologue.

Yes is the only destabilizing,
sure foundation we possess.

One March morning,
a virgin made her bed,
said yes.
And now it's raining.