threadbare

Sure I see more doom in the everyday than most. Sure I spend most of my sunshine days in the shade. I come precompromised. I use up my pleasures as soon as I find them, I use up my welcome before I even show. I leave it to tomorrow when I know it never comes. There’s no use in coveting small troubles. There’s no use in half meant half measure words. It’s the utile side of futility. The threadbare end of the phrase. 

The sky is a bright and blinding blue, and I am bent with ache and smoke. The agency I surrender nothing to the furious core that I cannot control, a tide of iron and fire ringing electric through the bones. The sparrows flit and feed, limb to seed. They gossip despite the scrub jays alarm or the nuthatches proselytizing, turn to turn and perch to perch. I idle in the elder engines, only ritual horns and empty sets. Busy wings and the wind in the pines. Want and your unspoken name. 

You feel it in your blood, you feel the heady rush of your heart. The steady sense of your claimed center ringing through the hymnal of your womb. This bright blue burst of being, breath all but bubbling over in laughter, the rhythm so obvious now that you are always dancing. The root of iron and time, this life the filings magnet dragged, the truth as it is ionized. Tall and alive in the warmth of this slow soft day, you are all the light that reaches, all the shadows waiting for your voice. Deeds and dreams the devil’s work, you get to the doing of your day.