Falling through the cracks, looking down for the ones trapped, hands that are big enough to catch them all when the earth seems hungry, ready to open up and swallow, the fire burning inside, each night that we’ve cried, that our pride was left hollow,
What are we sorry for? What do we regret? When the landscape ground is found to be arid, are we the ones to spare it and wet? Are we parched and dry as we are marched to die, or smiling and singing refreshed? Do we avoid the stress of worlds meshed and the collisions worldwide?
The impression that we leave can slowly rise to reach its original surface.
The imprint that we have may breech the security of the surface and permeate forever.
Take the necessary precautions. Rituals cannot save you. I once read that salvation is rooted in the idea of becoming whole. Routine, can offer shelter, but it isn’t a roof, or a wall, or even a foundation. It is a spirit that blows through us like warm wind and rain, and through the pain, I’ve felt her. I say she because Our Fathers have too often not been present. Showing up is an artform on the canvas of becoming whole. On this day of saturday sunshine and a warm breeze blowing through me, all seems well and tidy amidst the world of chaos and confusion. Amidst the world of conflict and delusion. I am waiting for the veil to be lifted, to see the world as it is. But, her idea of order and beauty does not mesh well with his. These pronouns and portraits we create, trying to make sense of the divine. We write our chosen paths down in pages hoping it is all intertwined. We may perceive an emptiness beyond the earth’s surface, an abyss for those who have fallen through the cracks. But we all fall through, need to be restored anew, let go, and relax. There are hands large enough to catch the ones running head long through the rye. They are cupped, and sealed enough to catch the tears that we cry. We rain upon the ground, and it sifts through to reach the core. The bookmarks in our lives make the distinction between our now and before. Kids in cells have fallen through, and and clinging to life on the other side. They may have touched lives, had children and wives, or perhaps no one will know when they’ve died. Photos may exist in shoe boxes in attics gathering dust. Snapshots taken of love and trust. Can and must war over opportunity within a life. Incense fumes within stark rooms hidden away from major roadways. I lay awake at night, dreaming of ways to explode days. I may reach out my hands to catch a few, hoping to be caught as I fall. My words may echo in the ears of nobody new, and I may not even hear the call.
A walk in the woods can do me some good. Others who have fallen through, may pop out on this side. So long as there is peace in my step, and love within my stride.