there never would have been enough strength. what you needed me to do, be, threatened to break my back.
so i walked.
walked fast, far and long.
i found a place for myself.
a small, simple, pretty place i love.
i had no choice but to make it home.
i found other ways to love. but none that awakened. none that stayed weekends, cooked breakfast, or drew baths. none that fed me soup or wrapped me in blankets when the chill came. none that laughed, cried or moaned with me. none that kissed me in the rain.
i loved in cool, collected ways. ways that earned gratitude, friendships and laughter. ways that danced, sung, prayed sometimes. it was not passion, but it was often joy. most of the time, this was enough, this open, public love.
my heart is a kind of desert, one that remembers itself as rainforest: lush and fertile, plush with brilliant flowers and technicolor birds.
yes, there is beauty in the desert: a stark palette of necessity, utility. the sky is still its blue; some cacti flower.
life just under the surface...love buried in sand full of dormant seeds and preserved pollen. the arid blessing that maintained the bodies of ancestors for thousands of years. a whispering love, praying the wind will serve as audience. the occasional, elusive oasis fed by hidden waters.
it is there.
it is still deciding what to be.
brash as an explorer, excavating buried realms?
skittish as a lizard?
it survives, though.
like so many things that shouldn't, but do...it survives.
because it is, i am.
and i go on.
in my little home
in the desert