To Wander Through

She's going to close us out with a lovely poem and a beautiful voice. Thank you so much. May the ink be with you all.

This is entitled Movement and Watching. Introspection watches from the lighthouse while I walk on choppy water in my head. Failure coughs and clears his throat, a distraction who loves to interrupt while I plan and organize and eventually give up to wander through the wet weeds and the shallows and talk to the mussels burrowed deep into the mud.

A hailstorm threatens on the horizon. It's moving fast but comes in from below, so the sun still shines while I paint the colors with fingers and ferns and feathers and all the F words in between, the alphabet of a messy montage on the verge of discovery, on the rim of an ancient pause. I know some people don't quite understand it.

They just shake their heads and walk away, but I'll keep moving in circles and at right angles to the straight lines that were drawn in the last ice age. I know I'll find a way to laugh about it in some wide-eyed stare of weightless flight, and I'll watch the wisdom spin its magic above the heads of every paper crown and around the twisted roots of lost survivors who squint and peer out through stained glass windows while they await their own becoming in the season of breakthroughs and of believing beyond the conflict of every arbitrary storm.