Writing, scribbling, scrawling
used to be my way of unscrambling my past
my scattered sense of self
my passionate desires and longing

and now

I have become still.

I do not write as much or as often.

Why?

Simply put - my life is serene and constant
and full.

Full of love, free of the demons I’ve put to bed for good, built upon years and years of sacrifice.

I am busy with my roles - Husband, Father, Protector, and Provider.

Some days I miss the crashing waves
and the practice of pain into art,
but today,
today my currents run deeper,
more subtly, strongly,
and quietly.

There were times
that I floated; almost flew.
The wind tasted fresh,
as the clouds hissed by.
My sweat kissed the
hot sidewalk below.
I dunked any
basketball that
I could palm.
Seventeen years old,
and a sanguine grin
the powerful legs,
and a 
skinny frame.
Life was mine, and I
knew it.
I spent more time in
the air than I 
did on the concrete.
The sky and
tree lines were
my home.
I was Icarus and a hawk
soaring above the
common folks.
Now, I never leave
the ground.

Steady as we go,
we live these patterns,
from one day on
to the next
and on.

How unburdened are my thoughts,
how free are my intents
while I know we are a constant.

Season’s first frost
and chilling air
somehow
make our whims
even cozier,
more whole.

Life blooms this December,
how anxious we are
to hold your tiny hands,
to hear your quiet
breath.

We ride these waves,
you and I and our
lovely daughter,
steady and sure
and full of hope.

I hope to
rediscover the world
through your eyes,
unlock the mysteries
behind the mundane
again.

See new colors,
think new thoughts,
find the lost joy in music.

I hope to
show you, teach you,
love you, reach you,
in all our imperfect
human ways.

Read new words,
twirl words into lines,
find the perfect poem
for you.