Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 9

CLIMBING ON THE ARC


If time swings and the seasons swirl and I pulse out my existence, why does the bird's wing flap and the rain fall down? If the song comes from my mother’s lips and my father tells his tales and I dance my heritage with each step I take, then why does the flower open to the bee and the swan trumpet her way home? If everything pulls from the ground and reaches for the light, then how can I duck my head, hide my heart and pass this all off as a coincidence? Am I less than the rain or greater than the swan? Why can’t I just climb on the arc and let the continuum spin its web around me? Well, you see I can, but will I?


Let little birdies speak.
*


What I give you

If I give you a piece of my mind,
a piece of my heart, a piece of my liver,
how do I go on in its absence?
Or does it ever leave me?

Is this more like an excision than segmentation?
Is it similar to how I carry you with me
when I catch a resentment; only in a good way?

I don’t know that I can be truly divided up,
but I do know that parts of me
don’t belong exclusively to me anymore
and I believe this is all for the better.



Vlog: http://youtu.be/o1vQoGu2yOU

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault