“I identity as Red,” she said

and I wonder at the lengths we go

to escape whatever it is we have been

to get to a place we still don’t fit anyway.

“And I am Blue,” said another, as I mentally

kicked myself for not jumping in with that,

as surely if there was a color personality,

mine is Blue. Not trendy or sky blue or

sea blue or night blue but some amalgam,

like a grease spot depending on the angle.

The man nearby was Green and sat still

like a tree. He was part of a forest

and I love the forest but am not great

at identifying trees by name, though

I feel their presence sure as any person.

Some other women were chatting about

being Yellow or giggling about being White,

one even stoically claiming Grey.

He was quite still, his leaves ruffling

softly in the breeze, waiting to see

which bird would rest in his branches.

I am flying a kite on the breeze

and will only get tangled in branches

so I stay removed, reluctantly.

I make lists and have at least a dozen reasons to smile most mornings.

Reminders help offset the programming.

I have tried and can’t quite get the smile to reach my eyes today.

The edge is never too far away.

Old messages are getting tangled in new quandaries and I am losing hope.

It will be… ok. I am… ok.

There is always bread to eat and books to read and never mind the empty places.

I am not brave but stuck in place.

I was told the word today was ESCAPADE.

The letters even look like a trip,

sort of swerving and banking

as if swiftly around a sharp curve.

I have planned many escapes

but the best are unplanned stumbles

into something unknown.

It appeals to my unbalanced nature

to find I thrive after the floor drops away

and flight has been deemed impossible.

I float, twist, test the currents

until I fall somewhere new, even if

just the other side of the tree.

I step out of the house and immediately

want to apologize for my hair.

I drive and whisper “sorry” to passing birds.

My kids probably think I am a basket case;

I am sorry for that too.

I say sorry to the doctor and dentist

for my lack of self-care.

I use the word sorry when I am confused or

angry or tired or clumsy.

I apologize profusely in my prayers

for being a sub-level human.

I apologize to myself for things I will not

put into print. But I know what they are.

There are only so many ways

this can go within a pseudo-infinite

timespan. I gently push

through dark, still water

to get to the door with the light

I think has always been there.

Nobody notices my wet clothes

as I walk through the stone arch

as only the bedraggled and tired

find their way on this path.

Is it late afternoon? Is it early autumn?

A group of elders sits on the far shore

(everywhere I look from where I float

seems far away)

and they seem jaded in a way I don’t want

for myself. People are awful but

the world is a wonderful place, I say,

but they don’t (want to) hear me.

I have to paddle back for something

I forgot and it feels like time is sticky

like cotton candy or earthworms.

I don’t mind backtracking because

there’s always something new to see.

I admit I’d like to be done

with this murky pool and see

some mountains, take a dryer path,

maybe sharing it with a friendly face.

I wake and sleep and it’s much the same

until I find my way across.