November 3, 1999: I am not what’s important
The body gets used to writing poetry—I call it breathing. My lungs expanded, I see this as an opportunity to reach outward at six forty in the morning. There is silence—chapters dropped like candy in a Halloween bucket. Milestones revisited—turned loose, let go, falling…or is it growing? For each pedal that leaps outward feeds the soil surrounding my roots. Firm, I stand—bending gently during most stormy nights. Weak, I am—from the inside out. The Elms capture my imagination while the Oak set free a self-driven identity. The Pine adds scent while a weed is mowed down. Staring out my window toward the yellowing forest—answers remain undelivered… Will I be here tomorrow or will I blow away with the breeze to a new plantation of inner peace? No matter the answer, never forget…I am breathing.