Day #215: the continuous pull

#215

There is a poem in all of this

to be mounted on my wall

like a moose head or a 10 point buck

To drag myself through the mine field of triggers on purpose

is it the work or is it masochism?

I am distracted by the downy picking off seeds from Hogwart

and I watch the all white gull glide over the gleam

of the rippling water pushing inward towards high tide.

Mockingbirds chase away the crow and butterflies flit across

yellow, purple and green. Take me back

to the time when the stabs were still bleeding

and family couldn't possibly know how to help.

Take me back to the time when I found out

doing the right thing was not always doing the right

thing for myself, doing something so painful I would not

recover, recovery was not the goal, accepting was.

This work is worth the continuous pull on the scab

the reopening the almost healed over slash.

This needs to be done to shine a light on the frequent

stories of when the baby was born and the mom walked

away.  Or when she gave birth and someone convinced her

she was unable to care for this child she'd already learned to love.

Another hour of listening with the sun shining on my back

the surf continues its motion against the rocks

a breeze does begin to pick up, and I need to rest

to listen, and smell and see....