My dirty feet are
Propped up on the table
Just like I like them
It’s Spring. Everything is growing. Alive. I am.
Longing for dirt underneath my fingernails propels me into a giddy dance that guides me to use a shovel and dig up everything I must. It pushes me forward, into the sun limelight, where I become the center of the universe, of my universe.
My wounds heal with the pace of the lightening skies. Which is really much faster than I realize, but so much slower than I’d wish for.
Except on the days when I want to take the time to watch the healing. To watch the outline of the trees gradually grow more defined. To sit and hold hands with you while the universe around us expands.
Then time passes too quickly. The lesson from my gaping holes flings itself at me, beyond me, and I try to grasp onto its tail in an effort to prevent my future pains– to know the lesson so that I can act differently in my future. If I can’t catch it, I am destined to behave in the same way over and over, wondering why I keep getting the same reaction every time.
