Grasping

See the sun’s shape
behind the cloud.
I relish words
not meant for me.
A sunbow,
and air wet and green —
all this pulse and breath
used to mean something,
but can no longer penetrate
these layered shadows
and gray sediment
in which I have hidden
my self.

And I want out again —
but have forgotten the way.
My navigator
has grown careless
and inattentive.
He worships the tools
but forgets their meaning.
And he does not see
or mind
others’ depths.

But I know,
somehow,
there is some purpose
to this sinking.
And I know,
somewhere above,
there is dry land
where I can plant
my feet again.
If I could but
acknowledge
that no help comes
from expected quarters.
If I could but
grasp this green air
like a rope,
and pull myself
hand over hand,
inch by inch,
back out
from the darkening deep.

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About Emily

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

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