What could water prove anyway? I get in the water and I get wet. I’m sure there is a theorem but a proof is highly doubtful. Naiads dance with tridents in their hands illustrating the beauty and danger of the waves but this certifies nothing. Juiceless arid dirt can make no claims either. I see the ducks take flight pushing the air with their wings and the rivulets trailing from webs. This is the thing to scoot beneath at the surface, take sustenance and pleasure, but never to become so saturated that the air is lost. Waterproof… is the way to go.
Give preconceived notions a place on the shelf or in the can but no place in your life.
I easily identify the big mistakes of my life,
but fail to recognize or report the little mistakes
that I make, mistakes, which cost me so much.
Repetitive irresponsibility has the effect of water torture;
drip, drip, drip and my peace of mind is worn away.
What can I say of what I refuse to see?
It was there all along like the view covered by the shade.
Who is to blame for not raising the curtain?
It may be me, may not, but I am the one who suffers,
I am the one who misses out.
Missing the opportunity to grow out of these
small deficiencies leaves me with a lifelong handicap
and I am not just speaking of my blindness,
but also how they make me lame.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault