The fog hovers like an umbrella of greedy sun steeling humor,
mocking your bleak mood, as if the apparent season of summer
would somehow hold you to your capability of feeling bliss.
The voice that mocks the ego says, darling, you are holding
so still that I can see right through the cracks, a wild bull
is dancing on your mind, those butterflies are blooming in your stomach,
those worms are eating holes in your heart. How do you do it? How do you sit so still?
How do you remain so quiet?
Ah but there you are, composed, smiling, hiding, hoping none of this truth
will seep out and let itself by known. You taught yourself to tread water, to smile and always be polite. You learned to do this well, and you can't let go. Being perfect is what you do.
Today on the lower step to the back door of your apartment, you sat. The middle of the day
sat still with you, it hummed your sadness, it recognized your fury, it gave prize to your fight. The vast sky that stretched beyond where your imagination has wandered invited you to dream. The earth, she gathered bouquets for your funeral. It was the death not of you but of a little square inch piece of fear.
Let it be known. You are a woman of vast emotion, the deepest sorrows, the widest longings, the highest loves, the biggest laughter... You feel all of life with all of who you are.
Let it be.
