A flock of blackbirds wheel and circle in a loose formation - stretching out, now pulling back, and still the pattern holds. It shifts, it grows, it moves against the winter sky - the things we try to hold together, bursting at the seams. The breaking down of hope, the lowering of expectations. Lower still, the breaking down of what used to be my dreams, like A flock of blackbirds scatter and break over and open field - still life moves on the way it will. Be still, be still. Everything that comes together, will fall apart in time, and still life moves on the way it will be. Still life: a picture-perfect image in my head of the way my life should fall together - each piece perfectly arranged so well, so long, so much time in the re-arranging. A life like a genre painting isn’t worth a thing. Then in a flash of light, all the loose strings seem to come together. For an aching instant everything seems so clear. |
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It’s a long life, and so uncertain. You’ll never know what you’ll never be. Take a deep breath, hold it, let it out and slowly count to three.  |
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