we pass over hearts
like magic wands,
like wayward darts.

there is ache when we fly
in search of nest
there is ache when we try
to bide in empty rest

we pass into depths
in, through the eye
out, by the breath

there is ache when we roam
free of destination
there is ache when confined
and held in consternation

we pass into days
forgetting years
hid in haze

there is a memory
pushed far back and down
of a love – – –

was it love?
is it still?

there is ache from what I can’t recall
and fear that i might lose it all

again

and

again

and

again.

·

I’m pretty sure we fall in love thinking that it will be the end of hurt.

·

But love itself is a testament to survival WITH hurt.

It is the product of pain given

and pain received,

and the perseverance of kindness between.

·

It is the bond that holds in spite of itself.

·

I shall not begrudge the hurts I’ve felt

I’ll beg forgiveness for those I’ve issued.

They were all done

with the intent of loving

and being loved

in return.

·

approval can feel like a beast
to ride high on
or be crushed under
and it’s nearness always makes me feel small
like it’s power is beyond me.

when it’s kind, i’m lucky and grateful
and i push into the light of what I could be.
when it’s cruel, i’m dark,
like a switch that flicked the wrong way
and got stuck.

and i wonder,
who trains the beast?
who determines it’s course?
can it be gentled?
can it be tame?
can i travel with impervious skins
aware but not deterred?
nimble, undeferred?

i wonder,
could it come out from the jungle
that i keep it in –
in other people’s worlds and tangles –
and come to me?

as a pet or a friend
whose bite is playful
and presence humble
despite it’s size
and weight

i think

there will be just as many people telling you – you’re doing it right
as there will be those who tell you – you’ve got it all wrong

i think

i’ll give heed to both, but allegiance to none
and take my path
in my shoes
for all the distance i’ve been given
and make tender
the dangerous beasts.

Though I have fallen, and sometimes hard,
I am not without height.

Though I feign at injustice,
I am not without might.

Though I have been scorned, for many a thing I’ve done wrong,
I am not without dignity.

I stand with benignity.

Though I have lied and cloaked my thoughtless misdoings,
I am not without honor.
I am not without truth.

My skin, soft and fleshy
is not without scar.
Every line traces lesson
with marking, unmarred.

I am not without humor,
though I know how to cry.

I am not without song,
though I sit in silence beside.

and also,

and always,

I am not without you.

– though worlds divide

– and cloud covers hide

I am not –

now or ever –

without.

Does a Monarch repent when migration begins?
Should the milkweed mourn it’s leaving?
Did the blossom not feed on the tips of her toes
though the bee buzzed on a breeze, and away?

There is a call in us all –
a pull to homeward poles –
and it echoes on crickets’ din.

The leaf that stirs in autumn’s sky
does quicken the blood within.

Sunflowers bow
back down to the ground
while bullfrogs sing high to the heavens.

Fat, yellow moons
cling close to horizons
and cast glowing shadow and path.

The bark brittles
but it’s green underneath.

The skin wrinkles
but it’s me underneath.

The heart hardens with lessons learned hard
but it beats –

ba

bum

– underneath.

Is it time?
Is it time to fly again?
A sitar song is strong on the wind
and the strings are stroking my wings.