The iris, the sandpaper and the tree.
..like sandpaper grated across skin,
the hard immovability of the truth,
digs in.
I feel battered today. Like an old tree, bare branches pointed toward the brilliant sky, leaning against the blue sea wind, always asking why.
You are fodder for my fire, you make me burn brighter, but I am finding it may only be because I want to block you from my sight.
I can be a fighter. I can hold my own. But give me a piece of your heart and I'll forsake my own.
What's it matter anyhow. Whats the thing to say, how do we stop the forward motion of the mistakes of the day? Can't we hold them back, use a big copper strainer, the kind your mother used to use, to strain out the pasta, to strain out our views? But maybe it's no use, it's nothing we can fix, perhaps the mistakes are the things that touch us the most.
But today, I am focusing on the ground, on the deep rich earth which houses so many seeds and starts. In this deep dark over turned earth, with it's pebbles small and damp, buried deep within this soil is an iris bulb.
It is full of possibility. Of hope.
It will stretch and yawn, and reach up toward the dawn,
when it feels the sun calling it just right.
It will know, when to unfold it's stems and open a tender blossoming bud.
It is faith. It holds inside.
It is trust.
the hard immovability of the truth,
digs in.
I feel battered today. Like an old tree, bare branches pointed toward the brilliant sky, leaning against the blue sea wind, always asking why.
You are fodder for my fire, you make me burn brighter, but I am finding it may only be because I want to block you from my sight.
I can be a fighter. I can hold my own. But give me a piece of your heart and I'll forsake my own.
What's it matter anyhow. Whats the thing to say, how do we stop the forward motion of the mistakes of the day? Can't we hold them back, use a big copper strainer, the kind your mother used to use, to strain out the pasta, to strain out our views? But maybe it's no use, it's nothing we can fix, perhaps the mistakes are the things that touch us the most.
But today, I am focusing on the ground, on the deep rich earth which houses so many seeds and starts. In this deep dark over turned earth, with it's pebbles small and damp, buried deep within this soil is an iris bulb.
It is full of possibility. Of hope.
It will stretch and yawn, and reach up toward the dawn,
when it feels the sun calling it just right.
It will know, when to unfold it's stems and open a tender blossoming bud.
It is faith. It holds inside.
It is trust.
