wreckage

Trapped inside
a cannon ready to fire
from within
at any moment,
is a restlessness
a stirring;
Not lit from
the outside, but ignited
with the spark of a fire
that was thought to have
gone out long ago.
the blast brings
a heaviness into
the atmosphere,
a bitterness hangs –
like burning sage on a hot day.

Breathing in the smoke
hazardous and dense –
is unavoidable
almost addicting.
it is needed.
it is always there.
it is begging to be inhaled.
a seductive masochistic aura
that calls out;
Billowing. Bowling. Bewildering.
knocking me backwards,
leaving me lost in its wake.

there is always coffee to be sipped

 

and pages to be turned
on sunny mornings
and overcast afternoons
in crowded cafes
on well-worn couches

in waiting room chairs
and subway trains
from one place
to another,
holding our fleeting attention.

there is always time to be passed
filling our hands with anything we can hold
occupying days only to move to the next
in haste, without concern for
all the books that will go unread.

there will always be more coffee
than there are moments to sip it,
and never quite enough time to turn all the pages
taking up space between our fingers.

Twilight

I have no trouble with twilight. I find solace in the perplexing coalescence of light and dark particles continually colliding, even for the briefest subset of moments. The sun setting as the night rises is a reminder that the clear, harsh lines of the day are not quite as scary as they seem. The boundaries forced upon us by cast shadows are not altogether defining but rather distant attempts to make sense of unreasonable logic, ultimately impenetrable by light or dark. In the mixed hues and undecipherable shadows that befall us at the cusp of sun and moon, we are safe to surrender to the ambiguity.

When I allow dusk to hold me, I leave behind any notions of anxiety. I can let go of the stark realities that move between light and dark and instead sit in the magical dust that settles around me. Breathing in the night and exhaling the day, I find myself in that place and time of solace – not quite enough light left to guide me, nor darkness to reveal the stars that wait sleepily beyond the curtain of the moon.

 

What Does It Look Like When the Rain Comes

Discolored specs on pavement

A combination of moisture and gravity dragging drizzles down a window

The gradual pulling up of hoods and pushing open of umbrellas;

Ducking under awnings

for safety from the discomfort

falling all around us

 

And when the sun breaks through the clouds

and pieces of the sky continue to land on our shoulders

What do we make of the duality;

The existence of something cold and wet

produced by warmth and light

Where do we turn for consolation

When the rainbow is delayed

Beauty does not always stretch across the horizon in brilliant colors for us to admire and bask in

Sometimes we are left only to walk steadfast into the blinding sun, soaking to the bone and waiting.