Deep Puddles

My spirit, trapped in the damp mud, under a rock, with a crack of light to see the overcast sky, to let the ground water rush in and fill what empty space is left. I gurgle the air that remains to breathe, but can’t yell; I’ll run the risk of drowning in this puddle.  Eventually, the sun will come out. And the earth will dry. And the puddle in which my pruned self lies will dry. And some warm, thin air will make its way through my window-crack. And green will catch my eye against the blue of the horizon. And I’ll try to muster my strength again, to muster some strength again to push this boulder from my shoulders and make it to that meadow.
To lie in that grass
And bathe in the rays of heat
that He wants to send down on me,
that I get a sample of every now and then
on the tip of my forehead, at my hair line.
And I want to hope and look forward to the day when enough mustered strength will finally come before it rains again.

Copyright © 2021 A.M. Wilsonne

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