There Is A Poem In All This

January 9, 2014

Twenty-five and with possibilities – Oh I must be a part of God! Over sun drenched oak trees I watch with wistful eyes and a woeful belly. It is all within me. And if absolute power corrupts absolutely I am King to the dark depths of my soul, whose villagers cry for relief. Relieve yourself, relieve yourself.

A mountain. Oh how a cliché was never so true! Bare foot in front of bare foot, seeking cracks with which to hold me. He told me it was here, to step or lose again deeper. I close my eyes. “Do not close them! You must see the path which awaits you, choose wisely and with caution.” A vision in dust, that is me.

I do not know how to pray. I did it once as a child for my beloved grandmother recently deceased, and then again for a man who was not worth it. With each cry a whistle blew and a question, who can hear me? I did not know then that ears not always listen, but the soft wind always comforts. A babbling brook suits me just fine; I would like to be its mouth.

Step by step I bounce in my cage (and what a beautiful cage is the earth!) First leaning on a small foot hole, then back into swampy water. This vast mountain leads to villages of which I have only dreamed, down here, in the swampy water. Grandma, where did you go when you passed?

From a distance come the sweet songs of my sisters, beckoning me to climb. “She is afraid of heights!” I climb another step, if only to add words to the tune and I breathe “Hallelujah.”

To cry for the lovers — I look downward now from a perched stone. Bodies bobble as if hopeful. If this were a holiday I would like to have a picnic here. The wind dances strong and brisk. My hairs work well, standing up on the skin and I laugh. It is alright to be. It is alright.

Seven years lived in swampland and now I am here – one quarter up a mountain and with a steady heart. Oh to be a part of God and without true wisdom. Perhaps it is best not to know. Such a blessing leaves endless possibilities.

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