Life, in Boxes

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Abstract

I once caught a butterfly with a broken wing. It wasn’t all that hard, they being slaves to the wind. Death will surely take these broken ones to a dry spot on the concrete where the ants will have their way — such as ants do.I have been a slave to the wind. But I’ll not resign myself to the way of ants. Hope is the great repairer of wings — the new shift in the breeze to carry my tired body to the place where tall grasses wait for me. Where the scents of honeysuckle and Poplar flowers marry in the sun. To the place where “tagless, costless dreams hang on secret trees” — just like Terebithia promised.I have hope for miles.Let the breezes take this stress from me — I cannot bear it ruminating in my soul when the time is now for joy. Isn’t it time for a bit of peace?All this a bunch of babble and whine — when a soul is at such unrest, is there little else to do? My neurons, pacing the floor as much as I. Firing in all colors. It is a shame to think this way. To lose sleep rather than to dream.Release, I beg of my own heart. On the spring high winds there is a place for me and I have hope for miles and miles.<a href="undefined">Christina M. Ward</a> 2020This might be the first poem I have written where I actually quoted another poem of mine. Here is the link for the Terebithia reference:<div id="7e16" class="link-block">

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    <a href="https://readmedium.com/in-search-of-faeries-9ec7662e78cb">
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          <div>
            <h2>In Search of Faeries</h2>
            <div><h3>a free verse poem of whimsy</h3></div>
            <div><p>medium.com</p></div>
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    </div><p id="82bd"><a href="undefined">Christina M. Ward;</a> nature poet who also dabbles in mental health and well-living articles. This poem seems to have a bit of all three.</p><p id="d4f5"><i>Author’s Note: As a person who has suffered generalized anxiety disorder since I was a small child, I am handling this very well, but I am honestly suffering a bit right now. We have put an offer on an old farm house and there are issues with the property that need to be resolved. My mind is so overly processing every detail that I am having difficulty eating, resting, sleeping — anything. Just anxious energy that won’t end. I used this poem to express those feelings — which we poets sometimes do. Thank you for reading. (And for giving me the space today for poetry to actually be my therapist. The irony! <a href="https://writingcooperative.com/poetry-is-not-your-therapist-720c0615b22?source=friends_link&amp;sk=8a103ae8f36e1d80c41fd6f69abe2aef">Poetry is Not Your Therapist</a>.)</i></p></article></body>

Life, in Boxes

I can feel it. Tunneling inside of me, burrowing through my gut.

It compels my feet to move and move, to carry me from one corner of this thinly-walled place to the window, to corner again.

The floor creaks beneath me. It has born me too long and is weary of me.

That must be cleaned, I note. That must be packed. That, and all else must be carried and measured and assembled — and there must be spackled and painted and prepared for our breathing and laughing and dancing into our tomorrows — with spaces in place

for all that must be moved.

The details — burrowing stress tunnels through my sleeping and resting and all of my thinking is stress beyond

measure. This unrest compels me. This stress usurps me.

I am overwhelmed.

I once caught a butterfly with a broken wing. It wasn’t all that hard, they being slaves to the wind. Death will surely take these broken ones to a dry spot on the concrete where the ants will have their way — such as ants do.

I have been a slave to the wind. But I’ll not resign myself to the way of ants. Hope is the great repairer of wings — the new shift in the breeze to carry my tired body to the place where tall grasses wait for me. Where the scents of honeysuckle and Poplar flowers marry in the sun. To the place where “tagless, costless dreams hang on secret trees” — just like Terebithia promised.

I have hope for miles.

Let the breezes take this stress from me — I cannot bear it ruminating in my soul when the time is now for joy. Isn’t it time for a bit of peace?

All this a bunch of babble and whine — when a soul is at such unrest, is there little else to do? My neurons, pacing the floor as much as I. Firing in all colors. It is a shame to think this way. To lose sleep rather than to dream.

Release, I beg of my own heart. On the spring high winds there is a place for me and I have hope for miles and miles.

This might be the first poem I have written where I actually quoted another poem of mine. Here is the link for the Terebithia reference:

Christina M. Ward; nature poet who also dabbles in mental health and well-living articles. This poem seems to have a bit of all three.

Author’s Note: As a person who has suffered generalized anxiety disorder since I was a small child, I am handling this very well, but I am honestly suffering a bit right now. We have put an offer on an old farm house and there are issues with the property that need to be resolved. My mind is so overly processing every detail that I am having difficulty eating, resting, sleeping — anything. Just anxious energy that won’t end. I used this poem to express those feelings — which we poets sometimes do. Thank you for reading. (And for giving me the space today for poetry to actually be my therapist. The irony! Poetry is Not Your Therapist.)

POETRY

Life, in Boxes — a free verse poem

Stress — an uncomfortable bedfellow

In Search of Faeries

a free verse poem of whimsy