December 9
CLIMBING ON THE ARC
If time swings and the seasons swirl and I pulse out my
existence, why does the bird's wing flap and the rain fall down? If the song comes from my mother’s lips and
my father tells his tales and I dance my heritage with each step I take, then
why does the flower open to the bee and the swan trumpet her way home? If everything pulls from the ground and
reaches for the light, then how can I duck my head, hide my heart and pass this
all off as a coincidence? Am I less than
the rain or greater than the swan? Why
can’t I just climb on the arc and let the continuum spin its web around
me? Well, you see I can, but will I?
Let little birdies
speak.
*
What I give you
If I give you a piece of my mind,
a piece of my heart, a piece of my liver,
how do I go on in its absence?
Or does it ever leave me?
Is this more like an excision than segmentation?
Is it similar to how I carry you with me
when I catch a resentment; only in a good way?
I don’t know that I can be truly divided up,
but I do know that parts of me
don’t belong exclusively to me anymore
and I believe this is all for the better.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane
and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
