The Way of the Birdling


Parting. Tearing.
Wanting it to be different. Knowing it’s not.
It is death. The death of our togetherness.

Can I stand alone, completely alone?
Can I put my trust in that which knows of things to come,
Even when it refuses to clue me in?

Can I step off and step off and step off, again?
Pema says it’s the way of the birdling,
A life of nest-leaving.

I seem to like the quicksand of inertia,
Staying in the place of half-in, half-out.
The knife is never my tool-of-choice.
Rather, I select the seam ripper, and break threads loose, one stitch at a time.

Why not the knife?
It cuts clean. It removes what is done. It severs quickly.
I fear the finality of the knife.
Instead, I lounge in garments of in-between.

Burden. Yoke. Saddle.
They’re not even mine.
And not real food for the heart, but,
processed goop, packaged in Styrofoam, empty calories with no life force.

I hear the sound of Your voice
And I follow. My heart perks up.
Joy returns.
I am with myself. And You.

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