Sod

February 25

SOD

Green and black, pinwheels of rolled grass speed by me on a flatbed. Sod headed for home. That is how it is for me. I grew in a place of impermanence, a place clearly not my destination. Uprooted and prepared for relocation, I am in transition. My future surroundings, unknown, will be a perfect fit. I have been anticipated, grown for a purpose, of which I am uninformed. I have done my part. I am ready to lay down my roots and become a lawn of seamless expanse. Somewhere my Higher Power is grading a hill, smoothing the way. I am ready to take my place in the landscape of sober living and right thinking.

Advocate for the sweetness inside you.

*

Cured

Ham is cured.

Thank God I’m not ham.

Ham likes to be the center of attention.

Thank God, I’m not ham.

I can’t be the worker among workers

if I believe I don’t need to work.

I can’t be a friend among friends

if I am an island or a precipice,

above or away from the need or reach of others.

Cured is a one way street

that leads to a dried up lonely end.

Just the same way that turning my cucumber

into a pickle took me out of the garden,

Curing takes me away

from the only home I know, recovery.

Though I am often raw and sometimes fresh,

these I can survive,

Finished due to the drying out process

that would be a living death.

Thank God I’m not cured.