La Coruna, Spain
Every day I grow a little
More old, willing, thankful…in a way
My hand opens, releasing hold
Sun returning, warming, running up my fingers;
Sometimes the fear prevents me from feeling
It’s touch
A denial of moments past
Freedom.
Not asked for, never realizing how the struggle
Would someday be so hard
My trying to skip the golden time
As if I did not deserve the time to grow
Or feel
Or wonder
Which rituals better judged than experienced.
A little head filled with non-stop sounds
Wanting to mute the sad and wonderful music
That filled each day
Never could I picture the success
At which the silence blanketed that meadow
That now I wrestle every peep through layers
Masoned by my own unscarred hand.
And yet I can feel and act now
My mind saying you are born, now grow
My heart wanting to return
Revise, rewrite, relive the little history
That I claim and call my own
Only breezes of the mind
That blew then visit where I am
I travel perhaps hoping that those days
Sit waiting for a second view
The air could be tainted by time
But a trigger all the same;
Moments of initiation shaping this vessel
That I now proudly hand the tiller of away
Then grab it back whenever
The Water’s black or blue..
Maybe now will come a time
When I can bare myself
Without the shame that binds me
To feel the radiance touch through
The sweat, selfless appreciation
Perhaps the pain of having too much
Of letting go things familiar
My hand richer for being empty
For what can you pick up
If both of your hands are full?