A Full Life

Focused on the hands

Moving swift and soft

Across the frets

Fingers pressed tight to the strings

I want to learn the guitar

I want to play the guitar

There is an unknit sweater in me too

A delicious case of homemade jam

blackberries picked by my babies and me

in some far flung future August

On the perimeters of my farm

There are dirty hands,

Worn from work and seeking holding,

There are books and plays and poems

Poems enough to fill the fields of that farm

from the earth to the sky

Words scattered and free to fly and make

their own sense

So many dances

Fast and slow and alone and

pressed up against the one for me

Too many brushings of my tangled mane

How many hair colours?

How many cities?

Teapots?

Bumpy flights and sleepless nights?

Belly laughs to the wall or the window

or the steering wheel, all alone and crazy?

Lonely to the bone moments?

Perfect perfect pots of rice

cooked without a care?

Worth the wait are all these things

Though some I hurry on,

Some I chase like tigers

And with some I play it cool,

Knowing it will trickle down my spine one day:

a bead of sweat well earned.

I am growing at the rate of freedom,

Willing to be out of time

And fresh to the feeling that I am

I am there, I am that I am, I am that I am there

I am that I am here,

And I am that I am everywhere