When I run wild through the rain my hair streaming behind me, water fleeing my face, I see with my heart the thousand other rains pouring from my past. How I peel from me the soaking luggage covering my naked pain. Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat of my bed like the humid chill of an early fall drizzle. I slip my trembling skin between the comfort and the comforter, flex my toes, towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love from my pale, pale soul. Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind. I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel, trees spinning bare in a blank wet world. I know this ever relived fluid, this recycled life.
What is Dear?
I am angry that I was taught I must hold on for dear life
instead of being taught that life is dear,
but they couldn’t teach me what they didn’t know
and couldn’t know what they had not discovered for themselves.
I wish I had learned earlier
to love the life I was taught to cling to,
but I am grateful I have been bound to life
long enough to find the joy in it.
I have found that knowing joy
causes me to cling all the more,
cling in sweetness to what was once such a bitter task.
I am angry for what I wasn’t taught,
but sadder still for what they didn’t know
and all that is lost in their lives to ignorance and tradition.
I wanted better for them
and they wanted better for me
and this is the circle which closes
around the dear that I hold onto.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault