Love is buried under fear,
oceans of drops aching for
salt water –
how can I explain it to them?
even as my own mind refuses the truth.
I cast spells with my breath
that clear my sight for a movement,
but it’s like trying to shove fog into buckets,
or run water uphill:
all the forces I’ve been told are natural
course against my will.
Yet I keep hauling thickened air
and tipping it overboard,
sketching dams and dragging logs
to direct creeks,
and even as people shake their heads
and mutter its hopelessness,
I feel the strength in my arms
from lugging buckets and wood,
the quickness with which my brain
picks out alternate routes,
the thickness of hope I’ve built up.
I glance at the rivers
streaming wild and rapid,
and the grey forgiving wall of mist,
and smile at what the world has made of me –
wild and forgiving strength.
It was me that was built for change.