Greater Space to Roam

 

Greater Space to Roam

("The sun had stopped shining. The temple curtain was torn in two.” Luke 23:45)

Weeks exist that should be stricken from the calendar,
days in succession of moonless night, cakes dried in the sun,
thoughts scrambled while tears line up like children waiting
for a roller coaster ride.
Weeks exist where every pain from a life behind you
piles up like mud sliding from the oversaturated hills.
Then you wonder why you hide yourself
knowing it is plain to all who look on.

Across the street the neighbors sell their extras
before moving into their new home. You saw them
setting up yesterday
but did not wander over
because
your mind clamps down on your tongue and
your skin shivers at what
they might discover from your uneasy rhymes.

There was a time when you loved company.
There are days you try to magnetize, keeping your mind
in close orbit around your soul.
Now midsummer, your night dreams are fearful
schemes of unresolved pain that seems to infect
everything.

But what is torn can be entered,
what is ripped is visible,
what is broken is not damaged,
what is past, though remembered,
are only shades masquerading as biblical
proportions. What is rent has opened
greater space to roam.

And still the weeks persist. Perhaps balloons are tied
the scepter and the crown. Perhaps children know
that open doors are meant to be entered in.