I once dreamed
That I dreamed enough
To give a little tablespoon to someone else.
Anyone
In that moment of darkness
To be a light.
A splash of color
In an otherwise lovely monotony.

I wouldn’t use clever anymore
Passionate, wise, unique
Or even particularly brave
To etch on my legacy

Is this the grand canyon
Of long shifting waters, carving out
Depression after depression?
Or, is this wisdom? As I gain wrinkles and layers and lose organs I wonder.
How radically misguided can our best intentions can be? Is that perspective?
Is it becoming so reserved as to become inanimate?
Stuck still like clay and rock and rubble in a pit deep enough to be seen from outside earth’s bubble. But not having the decency to rage like the hurricane on Jupiter, not nearly as remarkable.
Keeping a silent tally. 28, 30, 35.

Maybe I can weigh my words against action, against feelings, and intention. Maybe I can return to water.
Even just a tablespoon.