|Gratefully borrowed from |
the pot of soup that needs stirring?
The recurring thought, "I need mending."
What is this unrequited love,
this lonely sorrow so deep that if
I were ever to step to the edge
of its steep blackness and peer down
I fear I would teeter and fall forever?
And yet, yet there is this yearning, this curiosity that dares the leap of faith,
the great jump into the unknown knowing, somehow knowing without understanding, that wings will lift me up to fuller heights.
That the loft of a divine breath will send me soaring.
And perhaps not, perhaps this is all the stuff of childhood fairy tales, of happily ever afters, of great expectations, flights of fantasy, Christmas Eve anticipations.
It takes year after fear, recurrent let downs, frequent set backs, sensing, experiencing that none of it matters, that only these things are none such, non-sense.
Because really what it all comes down to is this, exactly this,
this this with only the utmost respect for exactly what it,
in all its infinite myriad of beingness,