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