It is not
.
the hole in the wall I fear
where ants crawl through
or the red tail in the wind
that keeps me here,
but it is the leaf over the grave stone
and the cat on the small hill
without a hope of going up any further
that helps me stretch my limbs
and appoint myself a possible beginning.
It is what I hold out for when
the seasonal scent comes near,
when I am not willing to endure
the effort. Then
I am failing
and always waiting for
the answer to arrive
in strange dosages
to arrive gentle to the touch,
however minuscule, arriving
however obscure.
.
.
Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in "Gris-Gris" 2012