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.
zakschafer.com 