A sloth is known by the number of its toes not its name or love of art or music. I can’t prevent foolish labels. The oddest attributes draw attention and acclaim from the scorekeepers and flag-wavers of the world. Going my way in this life I am seen by clock-watchers as timeless and by trumpeters as soundless. I am not defined by these. The number of my toes or the time I keep, the sound I make, is more than who I am. An explanation of me will not fit on an index card, nameplate, or job title. As long as I stay clear of these traps and classifications I am safe. If I buy in or fall down my sum and total will neatly fit on a toe tag.
Stand in your own light.
Not everything which is birthed arrives here alive;
sometimes struggle is answered with stillness.
I love thee in thy loss
for there is no life to love thee in.
Hope can be a bubble that breaks
returning to whatever it was before that perfect roundness
and yet the roundness is not a mistake.
Reflected beauty is beauty all the same.
Some sparks aren’t meant to become flames,
but their glow still warms my eye.