For A., because sometimes it takes a long walk back to find where we left our hearts. Here’s to all the water under the bridge – and getting over it.
I both love and hate bridges. I love looking over the edge at the water, I love the sounds of chuckling eddies over rocks, I love the image of my shadow elongated above flat green water. I love that when my brother was four, he decided, in the state park, to relieve himself off of a bridge, and Tech Boy had to grab him and … sort of shelter him from the error of his ways. (Heh. I can tell stories like this now because he’s twenty, and needs to be embarrassed now and again.)
I hate bridges, too. I hyperventilate slightly going over the Golden Gate Bridge, every single time, mainly because I keep thinking that at any moment, people could either be jumping off, or having head-on collisions. (You know what I mean, if you’ve driven when they’ve got the middle lane taken away. Sometimes the whole Wonders of the Road thing misses me, and I only see Hwy 101 and the 580 as crazy labyrinthine rat traps designed by sadistic fiends. You’ll note I also don’t drive much, and there are fingerprints in my steering wheel from my death grip.)
Today, bridges are a metaphor. I always like those.
short cut?
stepping stones beckon
perhaps a safer crossing
or new ways to drown?
not really trying
meeting you halfway
I stretch, but leave hands fisted
Pity. You’re beyond reach.
getting there
taking careful steps
progress, inevitable.
the reward of “wait.”
(Or, this version also appeals:)
organically
take forward steps.
possess your soul in patience.
progress, naturally.
Poetry Friday is being celebrated at The Opposite of Indifference today.