Protected, gated, both barred and bared, sheltered and shut down was my heart.
In the years we explored together I learned a new language, the one spoken in lore and valleys that sweep down from mountains and in old books with spines worn and shared with the best of friends.
I’ve taken the liberty of listening to your heart, the beat, the rhythms, the pounding of the ocean of laughter coursing through your veins. I’ve toasted the sunsets after the colors are faded from the horizon and missed the dawn while I’ve recovered, resting my head in the cradle of your chest.
I know what I have to do; and have always done. I steer toward the moral center and pray my risk is rewarded with affirmations of choosing reckless peace instead of practical progress.
And I realize I have not been moved to prayer in such a long, long time.
I’m either reborn in this mature crossroads or I am an infant in the story of my decline.
I can handle this. I can handle me. I can.
“Carry on my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done. Set your weary head to rest. Don’t you cry no more. ” Kansas, 1976. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0