I
place myself in the cycle of things wintering with geese
seeking
the eternal youth experience traveling over attitudinal geography for
self-perspectives to fill just this one day. My body, having lost the lightness
of the flight-hum, carries more the drum of it, louder in my deafening ears. Here,
while the geese preen, I tinker with my reflexes notice my joints have
opinions, organs ponder their demise. I made all these plans to do with life's
free passing. A toast to life, for all its ignorance of my personal views and
celebration of simple pleasures. I
am a full cycle child-like acceptance now. Will I always return from the dream
that holds no fear? My
daydreams return finding rhetorical questions, seeing
me half empty. How to respond, to explain deadlines' falsehood without
have-to's bearing alarm on this day's journey? My mind is liquefied with
murmurs, scanty
intention dressed in firm resolve. Wintering with geese, I am directed out onto
this stage that others believe in, to own the carry of themselves. Medicine is
my stage-mother taking me everywhere that death is my career, giving me all
kinds of false encouragement not to tell about life, beyond hormone induced
experience, beyond
life's chemical rides. Medical terms are now the tools crafting my body. I
carry many generations exiled into this momentous death walk. I am a chronology
not able to speak the metamorphosis, keeping to myself behind game-face ways. Others
have a freer access to comment about me. My strength is a role I play in
other's perspective. I sleep a long way from the canopy of life, more so near
the roots, the natural composting place is so close to me that I slip through
into another world where time is my soup. Here wintering with geese, I easily
leave returning not of myself, shocking me. I fight it as if it were on the
outside, overtaking me. I
feel the rigidness and claims that these edges are not mine. They are part of
that it process and part of me. Now
is too slippery to say my needs. My family is the embarrassment of distanced
well meaning but I am not that lament that gives me life. Wintering with geese, nesting
at the source of being, bound by circumstance to
pretend the truth out of me . . .
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