This twists as it runs
through my hands —
and a coiled energy
gathers there
and waits:
Either time
will wear it down
into something less vivid,
or we will take up
these instruments —
pen, paper,
wood, string —
to release it again.

And I tell him,
this is how
it’s to be done.
With careful choice
and slow advance,
allowing it to be
the fitful and frightened
thing that it is.
You may not
force it to your will.
You must bend with it,
what builds within.

Because I do not follow
the expectations
of all the worldly wives,
you think me blind
or indifferent.
And you are wrong.

Every detail
sharply defined
casts a brilliance
that blurs with motion
in the sun.
And there is no call
for my interference,
for my judgement,
for my disapproval
or denial.

He makes his home —
cherished and reviled —
and we fill it
shallow and deep
with living.
He worships
at the altar
in the curve of my hip,
and so
this is how we go on —
reveling in the wondrous
foolishness of us all.

Let go what will go.
Hold what is constant.
And I’ll keep trying
to be the better man.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: