Jed Wolf

I’d always been half-empty,
wrapped in thick transparent walls,
watching eagles nest across the creek—
twenty percent wonder, eighty percent bored.

Tried everything to break the glass:
meditation, medication, prayer
and shopping sprees, sex and certainty,
Jesus dying just for me.

Until one day in traffic,
knitted eyebrows judging gated communities
and eroding shores, when my love said simply:
“If sour makes you dour, sweeten it.”

Thunder-struck by teacher wisdom,
all the sacred texts dissolved,
into this single truth:
bitterness is an invitation.

The pink cloud lifts me above St. Augustine’s cross,
where Spanish Jesus landed,
before Pilgrims planted
their bitter seeds of grace.

In this drinking village with its fishing problem,
I’m learning how to sweeten life
without the crazy sauce—
one clear moment at a time.

The eagles still nest nearby,
and sometimes now I see them fuller, clearer, freer—
Thickness thinning,
like morning fog in summer heat.

Let others warn of Icarus,
flying too close to joy.
I’m mixing a new libation,
sourness itself the sweetener.