weight

There has always been a weight.
Suspended by its cord, it cut through sensitivity
to drive us home
until the weight became the cord, which became the weight:
scythes of productivity,
cutting in their being, preventing equilibrium
without knowing why

It shifts…

Now weight accumulates around my waist
obscuring former forms,
bowing slender limbs already weaker from the fight
against inertia’s burden;
I must bring patience to my scrabble for a hold –
to steady up, to get a grip –
to escape the anxious maw, the slipping precipice of doubt

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windmill

Landmarked in a place we’d never seen
we walked along the dike, across the marsh,
heads down and wishing we could huddle
against the buffeting of the endless wind
that chased its shadows in the reeds
bending, bowing, circling in their beds
until it hustled out across the sea –
to places where our dreams had been…

Before we found a shelter in the sails
that had driven down the grinding stones –
now opened, trusted to receive
an unexpected vital moment’s strike:
a moment, even two, of clarity and warmth 
to mark a passage through life’s mud and salt;
so we can imagine how to live, into a future
different from the past.