The fear crawls in at dawn
when my eyes open.
I used to ask every morning:
How many more refugees?
How many less trees?
How much longer?
Now I stir and shake
but not in the pattern that the fear wants.
I won’t keep any promises
to this fear.
I won’t do what it expects.
Instead I draw
spirals and helixes with feather wings,
a moth flirting with the sun.
Surely the fear grows listless,
panting,
after all that whirling.
I will keep dancing my life
and hope to shine
in some strange corner
and teach someone
the kindnesses I know.
When I am frightened,
I will beg the
rising sun
to stay.
I will hum the name
of our solar star
in hundreds of circles
revolving,
while my moth tongue
kisses this flame
just so
insistently.
I don’t mind the burning.
It’s every morning
and we all come from the same
unassuming darkness.
We have traveled so far.
The sun says to every one:
This may not be
the story that you wanted
but
your loyalty
to all that you stand for,
all that you love ferociously,
in precious salt sweat lessons
infuses each cell
of the story you got.
The sun asks if there is more to shed.
I reply “Always.” GRS 4/13/14
