mourning becomes morning

mourning
becomes
morning
one ray
of felt experience
at a shimmering time
i chi kung it
all my spiky bits
of toothpicks
standing wonky
in the plastic
bag
of me
i shake
i dance
i squirm
it all back
into a clear
pattern
of
at ease

so this
is
a miracle

available
daily

no matter
what
the over
developed
emotional
body
wants to
point out
as reasons
not
to play

i quiet her
finally
put her at
rest
give her
something
else
to do
with her
talent
and time

i give her
dance
shimmering
in the early
morning
of well
rested
sunlight
shining
in

ohhhhhhhhhhhhh

could it be enough

could it be enough
that i know the power of the poetry
or is it that i must speak it, too
is it that i must stand and deliver
the silent words voiced and uttered
is that what can release me?
from me?
do i hate myself so much to keep
the truth from even me?
the mess of insecurity
spilling out in false bravado
the weight of all that's carried forward
into now.
what is it i bring with me?
all these bags of someday
wandering willingly through the
bump and grind of what is here with me
needing to be healed
will i carry it from this now?
or leave it finally in this moment?
when will i bury my dead?
and let them rest--a piece of the peace
they have become
if only i will stop resurrecting
my need to hear their voices,
feel their arms around me
reassuring me of my goodness
and right ot be here in this
womb.
when is it my arrival in this
world could be accepted--
by myself--by my soul--
as enough--
permission
to live.