February 7
THE SEAMLESS DOOR
Tongue and groove fit tight; the pickled boards belie the
passage. Hinges buried deep, secreted
inside the place with no words, the door remains shut, hidden. The air, candy sweet, the space, filled with
the unbroken stream of surreal childhood.
What can I tell you of this living snapshot? Nothing but the haltings, stops and shudders
of a life encapsulated. Proudly, I walk
from this train wreck only to find the tether stitched to my heart, my soul, my
mind. Flashing through the room, I weary
and wonder. I have often found myself
outside this confusing destination, but never have I seen the door. Always, I believe, this time I am free of it. When I find myself again within this realm, I
know it is something I can not be parted from.
Then what of the door?
The undetected portal was spied by me one day while it swung in the
breeze. I saw the simple barn and the
open loft door; I never thought my incubus to be housed in so plain a
construction. There the turmoil of my
forward motion stored in the attic of the pony shed. So many tragic contrivances are stored in
such candid spots. Accessibility is the
beginning of approach; I take the stairs.
Remember
willingness doesn’t need to float; it swims
*
Two Powers
The river and the bridge;
one force swift and roiling
the other stolid and stoic,
The first carries me away
and the other carries me over.
For the love of liquid, current and life
I have slipped in to the water
and washed; my life abandoned.
For love of upright contact,
terra bound movement and love
I cross the bridge.
Will I be deposited in the Ocean
or wend to the City and back?
Where is the greater power
in Surrender or Choice?
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane
and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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