Poetry Thursday: Eno in the trees

small black dog running through woods

Your shit
didn’t break
all at once
or in order,
you could argue
that it never broke
at all,
that you were just you,
fixing yourself
the best way you knew how,
splinting your own leg
up there on the mountain,
miles and miles
from a trained professional.

So go.
Roll out
a doughy stretch
of time
before you,
as much as you can gather at once,
then play with it,
in it,
around it.

Frolic in the sea
take long drives through the country
do your deep knee bends
your yoga
your tai chi
and walk the hills,
with Hank Williams
with Joe Frank
with Brian Eno
with nothing at all,
and as many trees
as possible.

Eat real food.
Drink good water.
Follow the light
around the house,
like a cat,
from one patch
to another. 
Talk to fellow
travelers;
let them fall in step
with you
and peel off
where they must.
It will be you
and only you
in the end,
anyway.

Let go
of your notions
of time,
you have all the time
in the world,
and none of it
belongs to you
anyway.

You are a perfect mess
a beloved clutch of cells
and electricity,
a brain in need of a heart,
a heart in need of room.

Here it is:
all the room you need,
right here.

Do you see?

xxx
c

Image by guy schmidt via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

3 comments

  1. Jeezus Colleen…I can’t keep gushing all over your poems like this…but they just keep hitting where it hurts (and not in a bad-hurt way either, but in a good oh-my-god-I’m-such-a-vulnerable-softy-delicate-fleeting-mortal kind of way).

    Just. Don’t. Stop.

    I’m a perfect mess.

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