This morning I listened to an interview 

with poet Ada Limón. She spoke about 

epiphanies and didactic endings

and how sometimes a poet must surrender 

to the discomfort of unknowing.

How sometimes it is best to listen 

to the world’s echoing heartbeat 

and remain a solemn observer 

rather than a sweating preacher.

There is a sanctity about the mountains 

that my roaring yet mortal mouth

will never capture. All around me, 

spirals of snow swirl toward the sky 

like steam escaping from a kettle.

I let them glide through my human hands, 

knowing I have been touched

by something bigger.

Ada’s words reminded me that it is okay 

to be small. Wisdom is an elusive thing; 

if I try to capture it and plaster it

onto sunlit windows

with an arsenal of made up metaphors, 

then maybe I am nature’s fool.

A balmy liar who extracts meaning 

from thoughtless swallows.

Her words reminded me that it is okay

to not know. To profess a cluelessness 

that runs deep in the ridges of your skin 

and runs wet like the rivers of your blood. 

When I looked out the window at lunch,

I saw a man huffing down the street

with an orange jacket and brown boots.

I tried to see him — the sway of his body

and the scowl on his face — rather than

the lessons he could teach. I didn’t know him. 

I do not know him.