The Years

There were the years of storming and anger, pockets lined with resentment and hands chock-full of mad, dripping with bitter.

Those years wandered in and out of love and adventure. Deep funny in the mad, hard laugh in the bitter. Don’t you get in my way, people! Don’t you come home late!

That was called being alive. That was called ups and downs. That was called so much to lose.

Love is a bone, tossed high and frisky, and the puppy comes stumble-panting back so happy with it.

 

There were the years of quiet and waiting, wondering who I still was, yet was, might be. Whatever it is, not this. Somewhere else, something else.

Those years fell down rabbit holes, every crisis a welcome thrill. Shock me, scare me, move me! Burn this house down, these towering walls. Please.

That was called transition. That was called what next? That never slept.

Love is a wagon pulled through the rooms, piled high with morning, noon, and night. Circling, circling.


There came the years of howling and lying naked on the moors, nowhere but here, nowhere but now. Humanity walked by, and naked, we crouched by the same fires.

Those years ran speedy and halting, trailing beads and veils, changing colors clickety-clack. Everyone asking, traveling, wise and confused.

There was no name for that. There were no words.

Love is an airplane crashing and people walking right on out.




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