Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler

swallowing stones.

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 exist through flashes of heat and at the mercy of flaw or flow.
My grasping for symmetry and stillness rests at the feet of my crooked coffee table
and the antics of teenage boys.


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.

Happiness,
Not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour.
~Walt Whitman

Categories: other

comments


  • Jo:

    Ebb and flow, love. Ebb and flow. We are made of this. x

    lisa  replied:

    oh yes. it has to be one or the other. and the joy is in knowing both. xx


  • Kim:

    …spitting out feathers…these words make me weep in recognition, in solidarity. Thank you.


 

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Doorways Traveler
Doorways Traveler