Poetry

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Fallen Son

I am a person whose past is passed
whose future is not yet
and whose present is.
This is to say that in everything I do,
I try to be present.
Mind chatter: ruminations of passed, worries of yet to come, all invade my thinking.
I try to catch them
catch and release them before they get added
a priori
to my long tail
My long tail of who I imagine myself to be.
I fail with alarming routine.
I chastise.
I sink.
I drag.
And then I remember.
So I try again.
Up and down.
Back and forth.
In and out.
Predictable consequences of a fallen son.
But.
But I am
nonetheless
a son.
And this is the strand that I pick up. On that short upward swing that follows the plummet. This is my leg-up.
If I can find that strand.
Then over and over again,
I can surround my bruised and harassed shell with a soft place
To make my stand.

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