Almost Poetry

brave words for fearful people …

Go out into the world:

a rain-spattered window, with bare tree limbs beyond, rendered in black and white

Go!  Yes, you — though you are fearful and fragile and small.

Go broken-winged and bent-boned and beauty-starved… Lovesick.  Stardrunk. Skydizzy.

Or go sharp-eyed and sober, if that’s how it is — the hunger for the light a clenched fist in your stomach.  A hand, opening slowly in your chest like a flower.

If you are frightened, use it.

If you are desperate, use it.

Let the jitter and snap of your fear drive you scrambling up the cliff.  Grasp the sudden handle of the crescent moon, and haul and kick your way to the top.

Go!  Go by sea or land or air, or in the unfettered flight of your dreams.  Go alone, if you must.  Drag us with you, if you can.  

Just go.  And keep on going…

a pale blue and pink sunset sky, framed by bare tree limbs

Yes, you. ❤

 

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Musings

what we were meant for …

A memory:

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I am just a girl, with one skinny arm thrust from the car window.  The hand cupped to cut the air:  lifting.

I am too young, then, to have learned Bernoulli’s Principle, or to have heard the word “airfoil.”  But still, my palm curls into the wind, without needing an explanation.

Without knowing why.

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Then, too, there are my shoulder blades — the bones folded tight beneath the skin, in a shape that could only suggest what they might have been.

Or might still be.

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And lastly, there is this:

the small, broken-winged bird still alive in my chest, beating against the bars of my ribcage.

Scuffling and fluttering to get free.

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And so, at sunset, I go walking in the fields. (I have dreamed the moment so many times, it no longer seems strange.)  In the center of the field I stand perfectly still, looking up, into clear blue air.

I feel my cupped hands lifting …
the bones in my shoulders shifting …
the bird in my chest hammering
against my sternum.

And I wait …
still I wait …

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…to rise. ❤

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Thoughts in Progress

other tongues …

 

 

I have spent my life in the company of those who like to talk about words. Their power (so they say) mightier than the sword.

But words are just one language, and — hear me — there are others.  

Ones I am just now beginning to learn…

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*

 

In the last light, I go walking down the road to the woods.  

I shake the sun from my shoulders — watch it fall like glass prisms, shattering on the pavement.  

(The light is only multiplied in the breaking.)

So I stand there in the circle of winking shards … and look up.

Open my arms.

Turn slow.

This — trust me — is language.

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*

Then, too, there is the language of flowers.

Frost.

Sea-spray.

Stars.

There is the language of the shutter, opening to sun.  The language of paint sliding slow against canvas.  The dancer’s body, turning in a slow circle.

The language of skin.

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So.

*

Feel my hands now, pulling you against me.

Feel my head tucked under your chin, my breath against your neck, my fingertips at your lips in the gesture of hush

as we stand still — so still —

and the light rains down around us —

breaking…

 

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*

*

breaking …

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*

*

 

Oh, Love.  Put away your sword.  And just stand here with me, silent:

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… speaking. ❤

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