Sometimes I feel so lonely, like a birch tree etched against gray skies, so very alone. This passion that excites my soul like excited chickadee chirping refuses expression, except in the next devouring of sunflower seed or hawk shadow overhead.
Sometimes I feel so very alone, so sheered by wind and ice and howling coyotes. Eaten alive by life’s constant changing weather, devoured by the next fragile moment. I’m scattered white bones on the landscape of your memory, and not even that.
How do you explain to anyone that you don’t really exist? Or that you exist in every snow shower, every sullen black cloud, every blast of sun in the heavens? How do you explain that you’re as human and churlish as everyone at times, snarling at life, and the next moment the divine gleams out your eyes and you’re gone, gone, gone?
You try to explain yourself and the wolves eat your words as they leave your lips. Not that, not that, not that, the chickadees sing. Followed by the eagle who tips his white tail and soars: Yes that, yes that, yes that!
People think you’re yesterday’s memory. They think they know you, based on stories of yesteryear, of two hours ago. You weep in your coffee, lost, confused, empty. The next moment it’s bliss: such a java buzz. Throw the currency of both in the river–neither matter. Both matter exquisitely.
I know nothing. I don’t exist. I’m lost, I’m found. The “I” jumps off the cliff and finds her love in the deep, deep sea. The “I” is as ordinary as salt, ant, invoice, masking tape.
I’m lonely and filled to the brim with whatever comes next, even when that next turning arrives as a knife, a crushed finger, your puzzled scorn, your sweet song.
How can you explain this to anyone, let alone yourself? It’s a lonely business, this inability to carve love messages in the oak tree of your desire.
And yet–here’s the heart, my dear. It’s beating for you.