There are no rules.
But there are,
aren’t there?
When nothing hurts worse
than breathing
in,
out,
in, out.
When my days are all
fogged-up
like the windows
of the pickup truck
I borrowed
to get to work
in the rain
when I decided I was going
to keep going.
To breathe
in,
out,
in, out.
And keep moving forward—
to pick up my son at daycare,
to make dinner,
and go to bed
saving my trips
to the abandoned churchyard
where I screamed
with only God listening
for later.
I know there are rules.
Remember
the magpies, the only things
in black and white,
where we searched
for the perfect fishing spot?
But it wasn’t perfect,
was it?
Fish were caught,
but every step was steep
on the way down,
on the way up.
One slip—
And now, how
we feel like fakes
after so many years
of victories
in our pockets,
or wearing them
like badges,
we’re shaken like game dice
held in a dixie cup
and rolled out,
in,
out,
in, out.
It’s a game of numbers,
they tell us,
and we keep moving forward,
as our old answers
seem puny
against this storm,
playing chicken
with the rules,
navigating
with no one listening
but God.
Late to Shay’s Word List Party at the Word Garden
I'm always blown away by you - seriously. How you do what you do I have no idea. Your words, thoughts and heart laid open on paper and pen. One of my greatest joys is being in the front row watching a masterpiece played out in life. "We got this!"
ReplyDeleteIn the night we shall go in
to steal
a flowering branch.
We shall climb over the wall
in the darkness of the alien garden,
two shadows in the shadow.
Winter is not yet gone,
and the apple tree appears
suddenly changed
into a cascade of fragrant stars.
in the night we shall go in
up to its trembling firmament,
and your little hands and mine
will steal the stars.
And silently,
to our house,
in the night and the shadow,
with your steps will enter
perfume's silent step
and with starry feet
the clear body of spring
Oh, could I ever vibe with this one, Jennifer. It makes me think of a time during my marriage when we were helping feed the homeless for a week at a local church. I remarked to my ex that all the other people helping seemed to feel like "isn't it nice that we're helping these poor homeless people" while I felt like we were all just a bad break away from being the helped, not the helpers. Shake that Dixie cup. And another thing I learned from my married years--following the rules is overrated.
ReplyDeleteI suspect we're on our own here - our own spectator. which, in a way, is empowering - we have the ability to craft , as you do here, a way to channel that pain the narrator describes into a thing of beauty - this poem ~
ReplyDelete