The tipping place

Hope Song: Summer

each moment turns; a tipping place where it seems the world might be won or lost. this is probably a fallacy, the curdled ghost of one who would divide —

raw and reeling,

i feel the song of the dahlia with pretty petals torn by the hungry mouths of slugs, pasting its leaves with slime.

but now i know,

slime is the path by which a slug feels its way home.

i think,

despair is the knowing that a thing cannot be healed; an honest place to stand.

and yet i must stand also in this open place,

unguarded, at the precipice of all potential, where despair can crumble its wings to dust, because here, here comes the wind

º

And I must ask my heart to grow itself so wide

it can straddle every gap, every tipping point of time

while lo, the wind rises

Photo by Thanh Thang on Unsplash

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