Wednesday, March 13, 2013

I look and I can't find what I hope to see . . .

. . . and I know that this is something greater than a test. It is taking all of me to keep moving. "I move to keep things whole," the Mark Strand poem says. Why is it that my own impulse is to remain still?

I know that I must keep moving so that I don't hurt those I love, and still it is difficult when I feel such palpable heaviness.

Oh to be able to change what is with a flick of the wrist, a twitch of the nose, a whisper of the lips. Oh to be able to trade a portion of myself to heal that which is wrong.

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