Unlocked.
I’ve traveled
the loneliest stretch of road
without leaving the sofa
It’s a place I know well,
one of division
and a gap where hope should be
People leave and don’t come back
the same, sometimes plastic,
sometimes with pieces missing
I’m stuck in place,
pleading through a Sunday afternoon
to a God whose plans seem muted
A church lady recently told me
times of struggle happen
right before good things unfold;
I must be careening toward a masterpiece.
There’s nothing pretty
about those times when you’re waiting,
the times between the things
you have to do and want to do,
the times you know and you don’t know.
Waiting is agony when you’re not sure
if it’ll be fresh flowers or a stab to the heart.
Waiting gives you time to create
elaborate scenarios that’ll never happen.
You don’t notice the breaths you take
under the great weight of waiting
are shallow until you’re dizzy.
The air between moments feels heavy,
like the pressure can be measured
best in underwater terms, and what’s odd
is that the sinking or swimming
is surely a disaster and a relief.
A little chilly this morning so
I pulled my blue corduroy jacket on
and felt ensconced in a safe navy cocoon,
where I could hide my inadequacies
and walk with a purpose I don’t really have.
I always used up more of the blue crayons
before any others in the box as a little girl.
I think I’ve always had more skies
than people or places or things in my view.
My steps are actually little prayers,
every few strides a new one for someone
or for myself, interspersed with a few
of gratitude. Sometimes it’s a feeling
more than words in my head.
It’s lunchtime and it’s an empty expanse
with just a few trees and birds for company.
I have work to get back to soon but for now
I can sit in blue, with warm sun and cool air.
I listen to people chatter
and it seems important:
money, insurance, current events.
Sometimes, I realize I’ve only heard
about a third of what they’re saying
as I count how many steps it would take
to get to the river, how many flower petals
are in the meadow, how many stars
can I find to form the face of my love.
I think about star charts and maps
and how arbitrary it is where we land
versus where we plan on going.
I think about patterns of behavior,
abuse, as well as the way out,
how maybe I have numb places
that can’t be reached and how wonderful
it would be to find I’m wrong
with the right touch.
I think when people talk, it is mostly to
themselves and that’s a great way to learn
so I should try to be a better listener.
A few steps upwards,
the lake was very still and
rain had just passed, leaving
remembrances on the pines
nearby some rustling
leftover leaves from the fall
but no voices or movement
besides ours, a quiet thrill
greater than the sum
of spring rain and empty boats,
scanning acres of rock left behind
after a forgotten upheaval
long ago in a familiar pattern,
where lines cross and disappear
the way rain falls into flowers and hair
and small smiles, and they all grow.
The Word Rummager 