The dirty window
wears a story in fly specks
and spatter-stains from
soil tossed there by heavy rain.
Read the story
before you wash the window
as you seek transparency
are a mess by nature
and design. Some stories
only exist in filth.
The next time you see me,
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How much there is still held inside me
after all these decades of allowing
my supposed best and worst out to be
criticized and praised out loud.
People say self-care
is more important
than the Work. Rest and be well,
they say. What you’ve done,
what you could do, matter less
than the resistance you offer
by being healthy and secure.
Teach the demons, inner and outer,
that they cannot win. Somehow
they ignore the fact
that any battle has casualties.
If I do not survive in body and spirit
because I’ve put body and spirit
into the Work, who dares to say I was wrong?
Even if no one knows who I am
a year after I’m gone, I will have done my part,
and the part I leave behind
ought to be enough for all who remain here
to say I did what I had no choice but to do,
and that is how I will be fulfilled.
1 Comment | tags: meditations, poems, poetry | posted in poetry