i miss holding a human hand so instead hold handles of buckets filled with gravel

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 
turning to stone,
at the sight 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. 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.
in what cradling
might my meager mind allow
itself joy in what it is 
capable of? 
the legs that have carried
me, do they support
forgiveness? is this hopeful 
body and huffing mind beholden
to only that which it can
earn? 

i love but lack
understanding of 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. 
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.  

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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