We might celebrate aside a creek. Searching over a
notepad. Longing, maybe nonchalantly, for creativity, spice, depth of insight. The
narrations, storytellers, the metaphoric nets; to have life in script,
discussing clouds, heel to mud, hoofs to galloping.
Took time during birth. A bit quicker I suppose. Cut
as she was.
The treasure in that moment.
We might mourn aside the creek, lemon juice to wound,
traveling Egypt with similes; over white noise, maybe drumming afar, always
with meaning, cadence, and such.
Pouches of memories—days at a few thoughts—Is it
neglect, or failed connectivity: (it sawed at me, eclipsed me, while she made
mention of dreams—the sea as its torrents, the skies raging, with one needing
substance of bread—to blame is futile, it was fragile to begin with, unstable,
with souls watching, tampering, pushing as some do).
Many do care. They show it. Often,
drained asunder in halves.
Tugging at goodness. Forced to take sides.
