WILL NOT EVER TELL ME WHO I AM

One of these days,
I will understand —
and perhaps it is not understanding
as much as it is restlessness —
I will understand
how to let myself give up
that which keeps me
neck-deep in a mound of earth.

One of these days
I will know the mercy of trees —
and I doubt that means charity
as much as it means awareness —
I will know the mercy
of long moments in the shade
with a book or a thought
or both.

One of these days,
I will surrender to peace —
and maybe that is less about surrender
and more about allowing a little forgiveness,
and that would be alright, too —
I will yield to the moment
when my insides are not on fire
among the geraniums and paper whites.

Daily, I crack and smolder at dusk
like a thousand tiny crickets
made of ash and longing,
and in the middle of the night,
I stare up at a starry vault
of collective wondering:
to see myself is fortuitous
but to know I am there?

Already,
I am learning.
Already,
with a few quick strokes of my pen,
the wind carries me
in another direction,
the way my mother used to
when I was a child at the beach,
when my life was colored
in soft cotton tank tops
and unassuming pastels.

 

 

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