this crushing force may yet reveal
a truer nature concealed within this mass of mine
or again may not...

I catalog known catalysts
Fire, for wood or lead or gold
Earth, alike for seeds or gems
Water, limestone's patient shaper
These please me with their hopeful progress

Yet regard the lowly grain of sand
all unknowing on its path
To pearl, or glass, or merely sand

We are but multitudes of matter,
washing in and out along the strand.

Whether the slender steel lies closely enfolded
within its sheltering case

or swiftly swings open through its gleaming arc,
one long smooth curve from hip to sharp tip, and
snap! finds its place, instantly, inevitably

The blade loves the clasp.

The countless hours of painful effort
relearning how to walk, move and breathe
dissolve
as I melt into five minutes of dancing with you
Surrendering myself to your will
and allowing you to make me beautiful.

ahhhhhh...

Winter in Western New York is gray, gray, gray. Overcast skies with no patches of blue; muddy fields and ditches splashed with dirty piles of snow; ashy bark on the trees; dun-colored birds, deer, rabbit; and the people have adapted to their environment as well. Black, charcoal, taupe, maybe with a daring flash of tan or cream; shapeless bundles of humanity stepping from front door to car to climate-controlled mall.

My relatives love this seam between Appalachia and the industrialized rust belt stretching from Detroit through Cleveland and Buffalo. The generations of farmers, each building a little more upon what they've received from their parents, houses and barns organically expanding and contracting, rootedness. Greek Revival farmhouses with hopeful cloaks of smooth, perfect vinyl siding next to all of the mom and pop machine shops that feed the Motor City.

But I dread coming home. This place is so heavy, pressing the breath out of me. My mother's house filled to the brim with family antiques, broken furniture, cat hair, cupboards filled with food that will never go bad. All the people who know me as the twig of a mature tree rather than a fresh new shoot. And the rest of my family, who I love, patiently, joyfully straddling the seam.