About Me

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I write, mostly to keep my head from exploding. It threatens to do that a lot. My blog is the pixelated version of all the voices in my head. I tend to dive into what connects me to God, my community, my family and my doubt. I do a lot of searching, not as much finding. I’m good with that. I have learned, finally, to live comfortably in the gray. In the meantime, I wrestle with God, and my doubt and my joy.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Old Love

Old love.
Like a bench
warmed by the sun,
softly dappled with shadow
and memory;
an almost distinct outline.

It is not something to sink into,
this bench of hard wooden slats
and chipped paint,
this old love.
No:
It is something to perch upon
gently--
delicately--
fleetingly--
before moving along.

It is not a comfortable perch,
not this bench,
this old love.
It is a vantage point,
a resting spot,
worn smooth from use,
though splinters lie in wait
ready to pierce the armor you donned so carefully--
(and wear so uncomfortably)
(and hold so invisibly)
donned only this morning
before leaving.

But you sit.
pause for a moment
in the sun and warmth of
this old love,
perched and dappled and indistinct,
focused on some inward image of long ago--
or far away--
or never was but should have been.

This old love,
this paint-chipped bench
where you sit
and shift,
to find that spot of comfort and ease,
the one that used to be--
or almost was--
a question on your lips:
(in your hips and knees and neck)
Here?
No
This?
No
Perhaps?
No,

No, and no again.
There is no groove,
no flow
nor easy rhythm
of unthinking nonchalance--
even if there ever was,
or if there never was--
and so you stretch
and breathe in all the glory of
dappled memory and
armored comfort,
rise with indistinct reluctance,
moving softly to find the next bench along the way.