From tight green buds come beautiful red roses. From small verdant places I blossom, too. I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved. I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line. Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness. Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming. I write though I can’t spell. I love though my heart is broken. I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered. Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change. I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.
Smile at similes.
What I Heard Through the Snow
The commentator’s voice fades in and out
as the reception is lost and found
among the static of my drive home.
In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;
I try to feel my way too
as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.
Like a call from the wilderness
distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,
sometimes distort the content, the intent,
the soul of a message I so desperately need.
Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,
help and hope are torn to slivers
and rewoven in my careworn brain.
The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat
to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,
bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind
and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault