SOC Writing _ 8.4.21

Doth Fly

Has wings, soars – cries tears for an ocean – is upset, sad inside, doth ask the question where is my true solace? Where can I find a ground to weep upon, be undone? I want to know where my grief can give its blood to the air – to be aired – to be heard – to wail and travail like the all night vigil while Christ laying dying – mothers heart torn asunder – all of me is groaning – for release – to be all feeling and felt by you – by the other – but really what is here is for me. For me, for me – for me – there is no you until there is first me – and I saw it coming – between the sets of swell – she bobbed down and came up for air – I saw it in the renegade fig tree - too cloistered by the big trees to ever give fruit and yet the promise – green nubs of potential sweetness – lying in wait for. …nothing. It will not escape its shady grave – will not outlive the eucalyptus towering above – but I spied thee this fraught full morning among the black birds – your leaves calling to me to come and see – see if there is fruit – what might be possible. What might be possible is a curious regard for life – what is here and what could possibly be here – is only a small doorway away from marvellous life to come rushing in – to feel good – to feel as she said: Happy.  Not a state to gloat over – but yes, I will gloat over this feeling in my throat – noting how far I have come – how many pains I have laboured under to find myself gleeful - and the speed and sound of wheels and dirt and oil and hair and helmet – the roaring in my groin matching the rushing noise all through me – in this delightful state I let go – find myself – my childhood glee - and no mater what happens next I always have this – this feeling of me and myself and I – the happiness tree that bears olives and makes the world a happier place because I exist within it.