A Little Something Something

I'm so sick of writing (about all the things that make me inadequate)

The half-truths, the insecurities, the need

I run through a field of weeds that grow like flowers,

the temporary greenest of my bare feet

the sky welcomes me with outstretch arms

I touch the centre of myself so briefly I collapse

in the overwhelming ecstasy of self-fulfilment

that explodes between both hemispheres

cascades down my spine

and flows between my legs

I remember the morning I woke up and said:

"What if the light from these eyes is extinguished?"

In languor, the quicksand of knowing, trapped.

I smell the drying of storm water in the eavestrough

The light mist of dirt that accompanies the cat 

A sticky yellow flavoured refrigerator door

Welcoming and vast and endless and comforting and small and open and scary and liberating and 

and

and

Leaving

I tell the mountain: you can only be this tall
the slender hand of forgiveness, forgives us all
and if the stream runs upwards,
the woods and meadows call
I sing to the slighted hillsides, I sing them tall

I watch the night guard wander: I tell him to be loud
the simple pleasure of a a mockingbird, unable to be proud
and if a single stem is broken,
the lark can barely sing
I whisper to the enchanted landscape, I let him scream

I let you touch me: you can only be this person
the fists that captures the waves, salt stained tongue
and if the violin strings tighten
the sounds is even clearer
I lay asleep at night, I create you