It's been a long winter already--the wind-blowing and up-hill both-ways kind that makes some kind of summer of the mind seem impossible, and that reassurance that you are indeed the grasshopper this time around (however unwilling). My comfort comes in that Farmer's Almanac kind of knowledge that life rolls through in seasons, and change is the only constant.
This is the diagnosis:
I am a broken lip,
and a fat arm,
and a cauterized hip.
I am cataract teeth
and measles mouth,
I am a stained eye and
a rash smile.
*I titled this blog with the cautious hope that ideas are circles and everything is joined. Were I risky enough to grant credit where it was due, it would be to one who dares to write even when the rest of him is being changed and saved and forgotten.
1 comment:
Oh. Lovely.
The first time I read this was in a bit of a rush at Stauffer, but I love it even more now. I want to write it on my (slightly bruised, not quite broken) heart and run my fingers over it again and again until it writes itself on my skin.
Also, your description of MT has a beautiful ache.
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