the long dark curl of the road,
the concrete rising up to meet your speed;
the knowledge that if you could fly fast enough
you would disappear.
your broken sound meets the sky and is swallowed up;
you already don’t exist.
before time stopped,
you lost grandparents, parents;
you were left alone,
un-prepared to take their place.
this is the only way,
the stony path they also had to take:
the helm fits the hand
whether ready or not.
those who feel ready rarely are;
they have lofty visions of themselves
lording over time and space
instead of the time and space.
:open your heart eyes:
the wind joins you on your journey,
rushing at you and through you,
reminding you that all is dust, all is matter turned
energy turned infinite movement.
you are surrounded on all sides by mountains,
deep obstacles of majesty,
placed close enough
to make you want to climb.
this is the tradition of men,
of women, of children:
stubbornly beautiful striving.
© 2014 Michelle Warner