Always There
I squeeze all surprise from
the day, wash stones, read
leaves and generally find
myself lacking in comfort.
There is nothing I can point to
in my usual mentation. I could
make up a story, blame it on
the stars or collective anxiety.
Although everything changes,
this angst always rides beneath
the surface like a deep sea diver
pointing down, away from the light.
Some days I would have covered
in roses, sat with their thorns
and waited until the ocean calmed,
waves subsided.
But not today. Today I will risk
everything. Turn the fear which
looms larger with darkfall into
curiosity. Begin to befriend death.
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the poet as explorer, or the explorer as poet? Wonderful!
Ron
budd