Holding Space
Thoughts seep out of pockets
tucked deeply out of sight
from the bustling of days
filled with many shiny lockets
and nights on soft landings
holding space to dream of rockets.
But seep they do—they break through
revealing moments both yellow and blue
showing up without a clue.
Where did they flee? I often wonder.
Between the stars lingering in the sky
waiting for them to pass them by
to a better place with nothing left behind?
Or rather deep in the bush,
across rocky paths,
wet with rains and bare soles
and empty stomachs and unknowns
and strangers lurking in the dark
—a dark that shines no stars,
nor gentle cast of the moon.
Rice was planted, cassava grew
and bananas ripened all in place,
left behind in the haste,
a life once lived
and never more
—to be embraced.
It's easier to look to stars
from soft landings we call ours
creating distance between the notes
while writing short anecdotes,
while waiting for yellow and blue
to show up again
—without a clue.