I suspected I was not myself.
And thorns had dug so deep I believed they were my flesh. The pain of every movement considered commonplace.
Somehow I fell into the fire. Stumbling backwards, reckless, off balance and frantically turning my head, I felt a push and gentle guidance but confused it for a nasty spill.
And howl: what is this hell? And how have I not noticed? And was the overall ordeal mostly just an anxious ignoring of this overwhelming yoke?
My skin was first to go: tear it off in one stentorian wrench.Then lighten up my eyes: strong hands softly covering as they warm, calm, glow. Wrest the barbs that deaf my ears: suddenly a song ensues. And make sure while You carefully repair me that I’m deep inside the cave.
There’s a dew-drenched field I’m longing for.
It sits in a valley by a small lake sweet as honeysuckle, still as a mirror, reflecting cumulous clouds and stoic snow-capped ranges long trekked by distant relatives all fresh from the fire, who fall deep inside the silent seeing that runs like electricity through every humming cell.
I want to build my cabin there and walk the road they carved, close as every breath.
This is the record of what I’ve seen so far. Please share this room with me. I can only try my best to let the mystery speak, with as little obstruction, this song of finding home.