Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Not waiting but being.
I soften my face, my lungs, my judgment against myself. Forgiveness can't be far behind. I allow myself to float down to the bottom of the river, the last bubbles of my breath wobbling to the surface above me. My hair sweeps out in all directions, as if feeling for the light that is muted by my aquatic milieu. Body weightless, skin textured with cold, I hover; my buttocks graze the sandy bottom; one foot dangles, draws circles in the sand there. My face, cast blue by the bending shafts of sunlight through water, is smooth, expressionless, for fear has left me empty of more than air.