04 January, 2015

{bad poetry} 2

I kept thinking this should become a poem, but it never quite materialized that way.

Sometimes I wish I had another talent, a gift for something other than words, for painting or writing music, because when it comes to self-portraits, words always fail me.

But this is how I see myself now, with a black hole in the middle of my heart.

If I could paint, I'd draw circles around that hole, my favorite colors, blue, green and violet. Some of them would look like music. Some of them would taste like snow.

I get it now. We never stop growing. My life gets richer, yes. We build on top of foundations, even when the foundation is grief. But there is no way to color inside it, no one to fill in the void.

I hear my own words between the lines of the poem I've always loved, In Blackwater Woods. "To live in this world, you must be able to do three things," Mary Oliver says. "To love what is mortal. To hold it / Against your bones knowing / your own life depends on it; / and, when the times comes to let it go..."

To let it go.


New Year's Eve 2014