I rise between static and stirring, the fallow flatlines and the raging sea.
I know that I am here, always, despite the production volume of my being.
At times, I am wild with words of adventure and accomplishment, others I am
muted with repetition and resolve.
Still, I am here.
I can taste this drought like it is my own.
dust where water should rise.
To be with what is sometimes feels like swallowing stones,
solid, heavy, and leaden in my gut.
But, then I find myself spitting out feathers and taping them to the wall. A reminder that flight happened.
How, if I didn’t have this life, it would be all I’d ever want.
Not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour.