Hard to believe, sometimes, that I still have the ability to fear. Yet I do. I would have thought that I would have see enough to burn it all away. But it seems a new crop grows each morning that I must mow down.
Life is about to get really, really interesting. Well, more interesting even than it is now.
3.02.2010
3.2.10
Shall I reach, O Lord?
Shall I send forth my hand, my hand, thick and weathered and tough and knotted?
My hand who before always held a spade, a hoe in gardens of dirt and roots and stones.
Shall it awaken? Will it remember some seed of memory from another time and grasp now a sword? A pen? A scepter?
Or shall I turn my back again to the Sun, and bend, bend to my garden patch of brown and black?
My arms fall dumbly at my sides. For all the roots and stones have sprouted, and now lilacs, tall, fragrant, have sprung up. My spade and hoe lost into the earth. And my hand of its own accord grasps for the sword it knew long ago.
And I, forever now the sun upon my face through green and purple, lidless to your eternal stare. Thy chariots thunder.
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