placid (adj).

3ade6eb042e553687f0fd9295b11ee75Why is patience always working so hard for my time? Why is stillness trying to find me? They, in their gentle manner, keep showing up, I see them follow me, waiting for a turn to speak. Do they not know I am busy, I am running? Do they not know I need to swallow the whole world even if it will make me blind?

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seeds (n).

722dbdcd9bc455d0694e2a560a485e9aWe are just
We will grow
tall, we will
reach the sky
with our

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rubble (n).

886956a47bd0f299c95aec833985cc78You are broken, and sat there, breaking.

I will not gather you, like a shattered glass (I have shattered many from clumsy hands), I will not brush up the pieces. I am not afraid of the tiny slivers. I am not afraid of the mess. You don’t have to go anywhere until you are ready. You can stay scattered on the floor as long as you need. I will tread lightly. I will watch my step.


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fasten (v).

948d2537661dc3c8437a5f99d2efd145In this time of seemingly unbearable stillness, cling to even the simplest joys to fill the space. Cling to the morning quiet, the lazy kettle whistle, the hush that comes when the sun sinks slowly, and early. See: even the sky gets tired. Cling to the love you’ve known, and the hope that, as good as it was, it could be even better, cling to the eyes you catch glancing and the embraces from dear friends. Cling to the words you’ve written down and the person your mother sees you to be. Cling to the long sighs and puzzled moments, cling to the questions and doubts and even the little fears that sneak their way in, even in those things there is something to hold onto.

Mostly, cling to others’ kindness, whether the stranger who holds the door or the man who holds your heart so sweetly, the friend who holds your hand, your father and his simple “chin up” pep talk, the person in the coffee shop giving way for you to pour a dash of cream first, the bus driver greeting you, “good morning.” Cling to these, urgently.

And even in the stillness of the dead of winter, the trees, sleeping and stripped of their skirts of leaves, dream of the first day of spring.

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off (adj).

9f479a7e4bc8e83935655ec695721f1bWhere did all the words go?  I used to feel them in my hands, my feet,
They were the wiring in my knees, my spine and hips, the parts that
Hold me up and open.

Where are the sounds, the humming Muse stirring and singing
In the way she does, at midnight or in the kitchen, eyes gleaming
And her invitation, “come dance with me”?

Where even is my pulse, for often I found it impossible not to bleed
And show what my whole self was made up of, a river of red,
Proof. I am the living.

Where, from here, can I go?

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distinction (n).

df3267ca9ebbd89af9fc15ea10db64c4I have come to learn how imperative it is to learn the great difference between a cage and a cocoon; while at first they feel like the same thing – claustrophobic, restricting, cramped, closed. In both it will seem like you’ve been there for a lifetime, and it will be a lifetime more before you get to go home. But it is imperative to learn the great difference between a cage and a cocoon; one will eventually transform every fiber of your being, and the other will just turn you to stone.

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