dream and strategy

human in mountains

I am ever so much more a poet now.
A startling awakening, but gentle- you know-
like coming upon a new tree in a field you used to walk
a time and a half ago, when there was only grass
and sky.

It is not the words, for even now they scrape, out of shape,
through mental ligaments. I write less.
But I walk more, and I speak plainly, for apparently I’ve lost the art of adornment.

I walked half-witted into anguish and it jolted me awake.

Do you know the wandering?
The lovely but vague paths of foot and thought,
the words words words of the playwright;
and latent strength waiting like the sea below a dock.

And then the electric incision. The indiscriminate pain.
Once I brought the edge of a shovel down hard on a brown snake
and its lithe body jolted over and over; every muscle angry; its tongue
grasping at air as if trying to escape on its own,
and as I killed, I wished I could have left it lying lazy and alone.

But I wish no languor on my soul.

Wandering must share its space with exploration,
and exploration with purpose. To bring it to the surface:
I stand forever at a crossroads between dream and strategy.
And to defend the soft animal of my heart when cruelty
strikes indiscriminately,
I want to curl tight like a fern to the touch.
But instead I learn, every day, to open my arms.
I learn how to walk instead of write; how to make every step a vibrant,
tactile act of creation.

Once I wrote a poet’s words.
Now I wield them.

(ft. inspiration by Mary Oliver, Shakespeare, and Lin-Manuel Miranda)

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One response

  1. I love this, Grace! It’s truly beautiful. To me, you’ve captured the struggle between our dreams and imagination that make us strive, learn, and yearn for what we want in this life and the true reality of life…and yes, death. But the beauty in living, of taking that next breath, is where our dreams are formed and hope arises again.

    May 28, 2016 at 1:55 am

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