The way the cacophony of daffodils encapsulates my very specie. I'm alive, they call out and I'm flying with them. (What are you talking about?) It's everything you'd expect from a land that was wet and crawling and full of life. A place unfamiliar but yet, totally understandable. The way the light shines on the moon but it looks like the nails I bite off when the nobility is wearing off. (Where can I go after the moon falls to bits?) I can see the sun, I know it's still shining. And everything feels like it was going to be that way all along. The stars and the way the curled up man lays next to his pregnant wife. It's love that happens and the world lets out a large exhale. (But what's love?)
This is where things get difficult. The land masses up and the wind starts flying into your ear and making the noises, tiny holes in cinder-blocks. There is kindness there and stories to tell. There could be a big boom if you're lucky or you could be distracted all along. Distracted by the little stuff that doesn't matter once you think about it long enough. The smell that gets you down or that damn Langston Hughes novel that's stuck in your head all the time. What does it even matter? What is the matter? (I'm sad. I'm exhausted.) You're weak and only think of yourself. You're distracted. Not the sun on the moon or the shimmer of the stars can help, you think too much as the sap collects on the inner most crevice of your fingers. (The stuff gets in there.) Snow melting on the tip-toppity of your head and dripping down until the coldness stops feeling cold, a shudder to help it all release down, down to your temples and another shiver-shake gets you by. (The shakes have got to stop.) And the trembles too. Those are the worst.
The mountains can scream only so loud and the children on the swings still won't hear them. (You're crazy.) Stand there by yourself and make yourself hurt. Trapped against something hard and digging at your skin. Now run towards what's making you feel sane again, run faster than you thought possible. Cross that ocean you were afraid of. Cross it twice. Make drowning noises until you actually see bubbles caught between your lacrimal sac and eye-socket. Focus on the light shining from above the surface of the sea. See it? (No.)
Maybe I'm too much. The ducks seem to always be quacking for more bread but i have no more to give, well, none without mold on it anyways. I still eat the crust and all. The ducks can come back and I'll be willing to give. (They come back every spring.) My clasping back is done for and I hurt still, but I'm fine, I can tell because the mountains are still calling and the children are still swinging and the ducks still quack. (For now.) The moon reflects back the light of the sun and I know it exists somewhere. I've made it out of the ocean and I'm on land again. Maybe I'll learn how to fly.
(Are you still there?)
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