The wind keeps me from my walk today. To wrap up in my scarf, without feeling a noose around my neck— to secure that vulnerable line between glove and sleeve— to pull thick socks up over the hem of my pants so I won’t be forced to do it twice— it’s all too much. I want to move my body out into the world save the question of things unraveling. The wind wraps around our flat like a whip— like a dragon’s tail. Pausing in the stairwell, I check the elm —try to measure its bend and weight against my son’s corner bedroom. The wind —as if to peel back the crust of the earth, sending top soil, trash, a shoe whirling— makes us huddle in our homes, not taking walks— Dammit— a sudden wallop then a slow persisting drone— it’s not a song I know. I pause my hurried steps on the landing; a load of dirty clothes rests at my hip. Bracing for the next gust— calculating, I can only watch the pale porch curtains wrangle spill, twist, and fly.
*I have a longterm goal to write a poem for each day of Holy Week, I’ve got 5 written so far, though not all shared here on Substack. I think my poetry is getting more and more tied to the liturgical calendar, which is fine by me! Next week, we’re in Eastertide!
*Photo from the most beautiful writing space I’ve stayed in: The Barn Loft Residency at Good Contrivance Farm in Maryland.
"I want to move
my body
out into the world save
the question
of things unraveling."
.....
I took a walk this morning, now Holy Saturday. It's been a very long time. Your words add some heft to the message I walked out with my feet.