You can not decide anymore

what you are

lover or fighter

poet or activist

optimist or pessimist

all of these and none

and maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe most things exist outside of words.

Maybe it’s okay to simply know how something feels

in the mouth and in the hands

and in the heart

for sometimes the words get in the way,

make the story too small.

To arrive here after all this time

and realize this:

It doesn’t matter one bit

if the poem makes it as a poem.

The only thing that matters is what happens next

when the reader’s eyes look up  from the words

and the heart is revived

and reminded it’s a heart,

and the pulse quickens

and a sense of wonder returns to the scene

and maybe mystery too,

and one small thing changes.

However small.

It was never about the words anyway,

but only about the dance

the chance

the tears

the fears

the questions

the endless burning turning churning questions

you have been asking for a thousand years:

who and what am I

and why

and

can we walk together for a small while

before we both disappear,

and will you meet me where the road ends

so we may touch the wonder

and heartache

of this place

and try to make sense of all this twirling

around the sun

and have some way of holding on

and say what we need to say

how love and loss

walk hand in hand

and how we must expose our naked hearts

to be made whole again,

and how we must remember the small things

butterflies dragonflies fireflies

hummingbirds bumblebees

if we are to survive.