A Poem

Poetry scares me. There’s something about the lines and space of a poem that allow for words to grow and change. Poetry is uncertain—what I write may not be what you see. I suppose most writing is that way, but when I write poetry, I am conscious of this edge, each word teetering between clarity and obscurity.

During 2020, I started writing poetry again after a multiple-year hiatus. The general anxiety of the times nestled nicely into this form. Here’s one for you:

How the Ocean Saved Me

It offered me the choice: to sink

or to swim. I don’t like false dilemmas

and chose a third: to float.

Some days, an ocean at my back,

 an ocean above. Waves of wisps,

all the blues I’ve dreamed. Other

days, partitions of color: that orange

no one can name, a magenta or two.

My body, a buoy for birds. Rest

your wings for a bit. Tomorrow will

come again. Salt preserves the good

and the bad. But the ocean spat me out.

The hard lesson: again

bearing my own weight.