I am waking up with the black bears, our paws awkward, clutching sky. We have slept through the last weeks of winter, dreaming of what we love as flickering colors, laughing in our heavy sleep, running the open fields without snow or inordinate sorrow, the sun reigning in on us, its ineffable grandeur. Liquid light that sings move again, vertical. Alight, speak, touch the other’s arm to give credence, say what it is that troubles, confuses, has made heavy, has given pause far too long. Shed the worry instead bravely and water the infinitesimal seeds under thawing ice, the Winter Garden, with kindness, with coaxing, with belief. Grow, grow again. You must. The broken branches will mend or send shoots or live on as the cardinal’s memory.
The faces of loved ones [some sadly deceased], some lost in the shuffle of geography and hourglass, filmed through the scrim of consciousness with their talking and laughing amidst the painful heavy, the dreamer absent, removed, useless—interspersed, a hibernation undesired completely. Wake up and move through the planet turning without judgment, without need [f]or trust. It must and shall be written The March of the Human. This matters: this hour, this slipping sand in the hourglass, all those grains lost while keeping the dark, in your own way, at bay, it is hoped or prayed. Yes, prayed for again. Those blessings, count them, add the fractions to the whole number, to the whole, and try not to minus the missing, the longing for an odd, ever-fleeting what-you-think-status quo. All those risks that didn’t pan out, still utterly noble [somehow].
Translation: participate again and say sorry for the lost grains of sand, the lost afternoons, the lost words and sentences that didn’t have enough light to believe in their own spectacular essence. Dust off under the luxury of hot water and turn forward, It is spring again. How long it took. How brave all the wounded, pained often in their own walking, heads upturned to drink the warming sun.
Translation: it is okay [again]. [Refrain]. You must _____ again. The others know and have forgiven though it may escape you. Embrace them. Because you must. And the phrases that come out of hiding finally, that ask to be dusted off to somersault a freedom unrendered [as yet]. Paragraphs and pages, it is hoped. To perform a music like no other. Yes, that is what matters. Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. The black bears clutching at sky with their awkward paws, remembering hunger, tipped toward nectar light, dreaming to be human according to one humbled human, this March.