Whittle it Down
A famous sculptor mentioned that he doesn’t so much create the objects as remove the stone which doesn’t belong. I have had the same experience with willingness. Encased in the bedrock of my will willingness had no opportunity to open doors. Flaking away the extraneous the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental. As the tears stream down my face and wrong thinking flies from my brain the key is more finely formed. As I wheedle at misconception and haul bodily wrong action the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun. Many doors stand ajar, at first those with basic tumblers, but now even those with encrypted defense are no match for the willingness, which I wield with rapier wit. The obvious blocks to progress open to me as well as the subtle doors to untold destination, I am let out of danger, released into possibility.
The small log shape with wings
Passed the windshield of my moving car
Meticulous calculation and correction
In a night sky.
Swift and meaningful
The owl lives as it knows how.
I was not born to the night.
Darkness not my given realm.
I have inverted my senses and compensated
For the moonlight.
I pull my way through the air
And hunt for my survival
In a world of shadows.
The morsels caught on the wing.
Snatches of conversations
And lines from books sustain me.
Giving me strength to live
In spite of the nocturnal bondage.
I have made peace with the night.
I am changed by my living
And my living endures.
The grace required to abide here
Is bestowed on me nightly.
I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.