tmbt: the swinging tide of you, of me
It swings. It swings up and around and back again, the lilting tide of your fickle breath and I am stumped. Stumped but for the rising sureness in something so much deeper that runs congruent to every line I throw at you, at me, at this precious moment and the next ad nauseum.
Will it be that someday we will be free from the angling speech, the molesting insinuations, the over-ripe attitudes of entitlement that hold dear to shame and hug tight our wet pillows at night for lack of the deeper love than can be found in or from or with the man laying next to me, or laying next to someone else across town, across the country, across the world. I reach inside with a simple out-breath and see that the heart’s greatest gift and simplicity is already here, not under or alongside, not around nor above, nor even inside. The pushing and pulling is the depth, the depth is its own display of the every-day games. I see it.
I see it, and then in a blink it slides from me and I am again in the spin, but I remember. The sensation wraps me like a light sweetly slightly softly scratchy blanket and I smile in the face of every unwarranted fear. I smile at the perfection. I smile at the strife they bring. I smile at the generous glory imparted. I smile at the ugliness. And at the beauty. The beauty of the swing.
Photo from Crazy Quilts.