feeling foolish and meager, i write
upon this page. perhaps this
will inflate my flagging flesh? maybe
my mind will still from its breeze
of ineptitude? and what is it to feel
flung and wrecked by relentless muttering
doubt? is it ego that rides
riffling winds, its false feathering
turned to stone, at the sighting of eagle
and hawk? i see photos
of alpine lakes and feel
myself both buoyant and sodden; this is beauty
and i am not there. and a lake
is a container, so my mind puddles
on capacity. we each in our every form
are given to encapsulation. to hold
and to be beheld. at what wonder
might my meager mind allow itself joy
in what it is capable of?
the legs that have carried me, do they earn
forgiveness? is this hopeful
body and huffing mind beholden to only
that which it can earn? i love
but am unable to understand how to be
loved.
a friend was just up
there in that alpine, with the eagle
and hawk, seeing for me
the lake and the rioting wind.
he hasn’t told me but still he tells me;
the lake is not fixed in its capacity
to contain. and you, you are not bound
by what you are able to hold
and accept. the only law that governs
you is that you are of perpetual motion.
your borders are that of shadow
line, and all that you can contain is ever
more than enough.
zakschafer.com 