February 12
Whittle it Down
A famous sculptor mentioned that he doesn’t so much create
the objects as remove the stone which doesn’t belong. I have had the same experience with
willingness. Encased in the bedrock of
my will willingness had no opportunity to open doors. Flaking away the
extraneous the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental. As the tears stream down my face and wrong
thinking flies from my brain the key is more finely formed. As I wheedle at misconception and haul bodily
wrong action the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun. Many doors stand ajar, at first those with
basic tumblers, but now even those with encrypted defense are no match for the
willingness, which I wield with rapier wit.
The obvious blocks to progress open to me as well as the subtle doors to
untold destination, I am let out of danger, released into possibility.
Trace implication
*
NIGHT FLIGHT
The small log shape with wings
Passed the windshield of my moving car
Without collision.
Meticulous calculation and correction
In a night sky.
Silent passage
Swift and meaningful
The owl lives as it knows how.
I was not born to the night.
Darkness not my given realm.
I have inverted my senses and compensated
For the moonlight.
I pull my way through the air
And hunt for my survival
In a world of shadows.
The morsels caught on the wing.
Snatches of conversations
And lines from books sustain me.
Giving me strength to live
In spite of the nocturnal bondage.
I have made peace with the night.
I am changed by my living
And my living endures.
The grace required to abide here
Is bestowed on me nightly.
I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.
The small log shape with wings
Passed the windshield of my moving car
Without collision.
Meticulous calculation and correction
In a night sky.
Silent passage
Swift and meaningful
The owl lives as it knows how.
I was not born to the night.
Darkness not my given realm.
I have inverted my senses and compensated
For the moonlight.
I pull my way through the air
And hunt for my survival
In a world of shadows.
The morsels caught on the wing.
Snatches of conversations
And lines from books sustain me.
Giving me strength to live
In spite of the nocturnal bondage.
I have made peace with the night.
I am changed by my living
And my living endures.
The grace required to abide here
Is bestowed on me nightly.
I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to
Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
No comments:
Post a Comment