No special reflection this time. Just a poem from the archives, as the work, the worries and the projects have got a bit overwhelming.
I always try to do too much.
Bog
So long I dragged my body over gravel
and ice chips, coals
and shifting drifts of dust.
So often you crouched to lift me
as my hands pinched your mouth
and clawed your eyes.
So long I breathed the swamp,
drowning half-asleep
in a trance of murky lights.
So often you clutched my wrist
and yanked me up through depths
until the sweat ran with blood
along your brows. You fed me from that blood.
You let it drip in my open mouth
(an open sore)
to wash my tongue, to red my lips.
You sparked a fire, wrapped me in wool
and held me under winter stars
till I could breathe again.
So long we’ve gone this way.
When will I run the paths
green-carpeted and wild?
When will I learn
not to creep into bogs?
My words sink in murk
beneath a sucking sound
telling me I’m nothing.
In the void, I find
my need for you again.
On second thought, there is a reflection here … surrender. Which is precisely what I need to do.
What do you need to surrender, in order to live free?
