Monday, June 1, 2015

The Garden

not my photo
Tiny child, but not too tiny, strong, yet confused. Tiny child, scooping up little pieces of knowledge from the bottom of the barn. This tiny bit of knowledge I found along the side of the road, and at forty I have a tiny bit of information scooped up in my hands.

Who are you? Who am I? Why are you still here? Shutting me out? Shutting me down? Why are you still here? Why do I still run to you like that little child who is so dependant on your acceptance. Why are we still here? Why haven't we fought for our lives, why do you still silence me in the night.

From the darkness on the shore, the luminaires along the tide that reminds me I can never be free. The darkness in the schools, the faces that seemed so distant? The ideas and friendship like nothing I understood. The darkness of  the city in the rain with only the red light followed by green and yellow.

Always red and yellow against the wet pavement. At forty I have the darkness part understood. The red part grows strong.

Why are you still here? When I tried so hard to run away. Why are you still here when I replaced all those years with darkness. I was only left with the times when my body begged to cry; to die
Enter the knight, the part, of my heart that kept fighting. The tarot card that always comes galloping out of the field, that comes out of the fire to remind me :This is where I kept fighting, for the tiny bit of light. Why I kept scooping the barn floor. This is the garden that I sow, not of crocus or tulips but with in the bed of darkness I sprout the golden seed.

With my tiny tears light is grown with the drop from my eyes. I scream from my tiny house... Why are you still here?

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