one day, I mistake the rustling of the leaves
for the pre-arrival of the garbage truck,
and I run outside in a heave of pajama and recyclables
to discover it is only Monday.
Above me, the sky glows an unnatural,
virus-colored blue. It would be an understatement to say
I have lost track of time. I have lost track.
In crowds, I am teetering slightly, squinting
at the exit sign, wondering if I'm the only one
who didn't bring enough layers, who is wearing the wrong
shoes, who is wrestling with her own heart, wondering if
I will remember, entirely, the way to get back.
how can we decide that where we are
is where we need to be?
where is the map for locating the self,
the precise axis where we are freest to forgive
what we cannot hold to our vibrating bodies and recognize
what we are already embracing?
1 comment:
Losing track of time. Losing track of self. Sometimes I stop running, take a look around, and realize that everyone around me seems lost also, having forgotten something that seemed important, but isn't really. We laugh at each other, at ourselves, and haul our garbage, our recyclables back inside. Laughing because we have been reminded that we've all got "our stuff." Sometimes when we least expect it, we catch a glimpse of how silly we are to think we are the only ones with messes behind closed doors.
BTW, tomorrow is our garbage and recycling day. I'd better go put our stuff out...
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