I long for the deep
and yet I stay riveted on
the shallow pathways
of my mind.
Afraid to descend
into the shadows
I follow the path
of distractions.
The familiar
keeps me bound
to a false sense of
self and security.
Maybe the poem
ends here
in the all that
is ever going to be.
And yet I feel
the swell of something
else arising
something unborn.
All around me
is nothing but
unlimited space
pure potential.
A pause
and an impulse
to give up on the poem
to walk away
and leave her hanging
there in limbo
a state between
here and there.Â
The known
and the unknown
The born
and the unborn.
A poem needs
time and patience
gestation
and birthing.
Today is my
daughter’s birthday.
I remember
the pauses in the
birth canal
when my children
were being born.
Waiting for
the next contraction
as my body not me
birthed a human being.
For a time
I took ownership
but I knew from the moment
they were born
they weren’t mine.
Just like the words
of this poem.
We tell the story
of me and mine
even though we know
it’s not the truth.
I also call the flowers
in my garden mine
and yet I have
never truly grown a flower.
I know nothing
about the impulse
that makes them flower
or how they got
to be so exquisite
and unspeakably
breathtakingly
beautiful.
© Candace Kirby