Overhearing tenderness at the end
of the week I think of my friend’s
pothos cuttings, marbled hearts
taking root in a bottle of water
spilling down the sides like
they’ve got stories to tell. Or
of how moving anywhere always
seems impossible until it’s done
and when it’s done it feels like
it couldn’t have turned out
any other way. What I’m trying to say
is that maybe we don’t have to be
exactly where we were planted
to bloom. The other thing I’m trying
to say is that it should be easier
to send ourselves off. We talk about
the old days like they were better
but look, some days that’s not true.
What is there left to do for any of us
when life grabs us by the waist
kisses us full-on while our mouths
are open in surprise? Here we are
every dumb and hopeful morning
that final heave until we find ourselves
upright, one foot in front of the other
stumbling softly into the light.
🔮💫
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