My Daughter Asks Me What The Soul Is

I who have no certainty of belief,

how can I answer?  Maybe the soul

is a small bird inside the chest,

beating its wings for the joy of freedom.

Maybe it’s a kernel of light, a pulsating star,

 a small moon within us that waxes and wanes

without leaving the sky. Perhaps it’s the energy

that lightens our steps, the radiance that illumines

our words, the sound that hums below everything.

I ponder the rush of water in the kitchen sink

as I wash, she dries. Her towel moves meditatively

across the flat white plates, the chipped soup bowls,

the forks bent from the garbage disposal.

Her hair is in need of brushing, her face slightly grubby,

her eyes luminous with thought. Gazing at her

I feel my soul, whatever that may be, expand.

Perhaps the olive trees outside the window

know the answer. They lean toward each other,

a bulwark against grayness: each tree its own life,

a witness to the sky, the sky a witness

to the trees, sky and trees a witness to the earth.

I turn off the water and dry my hands,

sense quiet vibrating like a pulse. Beneath our feet

the earth turns, its subtle motion a witness

to our humanness: so ordinary, so transcendent.