disconnect

It occurs to me that I need to disconnect from the Fields of Arbol for a bit (knowing me, that could be five minute, an hour, a day, a week, a lifetime) and write from me.

disconnect

those tree-sap to amber moments
when the sweetness is suddenly
not as relevant as when you landed,
looking for something that
may or may not have been there,
but certainly was sold as gold and glory
(it is the same old story).
but in the
disconnect
you find the blind spot that
caught you up in your own imperfections,
unforgiven and unforgiveable,
for those who ask first
are usually the last to grant mercy,
for we are inside-out people,
crowding the steeple
when we only really need a bit
of divine intercession,
is my impression.
but as I am the one stuck
and the tar pit muck
(to stretch and shift the metaphor)
is mine and mine alone to
hold to, mold to, fold into,
I think I shall walk as
a blind man in a minefield,
only wishing for the best for all,
but unable to ascertain
the next steps' gain.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.