Small Hands
Small Hands
The past
is both place and theory,
seems dreary, though,
to wallow in my history
and lose the mystery
if I hold on to my version of self
and not embrace
the softness
within my heart
and the feelings
that flow like a river
that connects
to earth and her heart
within mine.
I choose
to lose my self
in this natural flow,
renounce what I said I once knew
and know,
let go
of my notions
and other elixirs and potions
centered on logic,
right and wrong.
I believe there is a song
in my heart
and in hers
with a melody so refined
that it feels like cool air
on Saturday afternoons
near bodies of water that sway
when hands are held,
hearts meld
into one
underneath clouds
and sun.
It is not often
that a string in my heart has been strum,
but when it happens,
I feel numb
in my brain
and in response to things
that attempt to explain
that I am not of this earth
and that my body is not real.
While here,
I choose to face fear
and listen
to the wisdom of the river
and its flow
and the sounds that smell
like memories
floating through space time
inside my words
on the wings of birds
perched inside dreams
and small hands
that hold my heart.
