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Column 1, Column 2, Column 3, Column 4--
1, 2, 3, 4--
1, 2, 3, 4--
Why is there always so much more?
Pick a task, any task, keep going, there's more--
It doesn't matter if you feel like falling on the floor.

Keep going, keep going
don't stop; no slowing.

I am sore
but there's more

Column 1 is the kids and the schooling and their needs.
Column 2 is the house and the cleaning and the garden and the seeds.
Column 3 is for me the people and the art I want to see.
Column 4 is for Noah keep the marriage out of the weeds.

1
2
3
4

more
more
more
more

I'm so sore
I just wanna lie on the floor
I feel like I done tore
All the life is just seeping out of my core.

Bleeding is feeding the seeding to come.
This is the time to hibernate with the sun.
It is ok to lie down and not have any fun.
It doesn't mean you are broken or deficient or just the sum
of the days when you could not get anything done.

Maybe it is not depression per se
Maybe the body is just having it's say

You have spent every drop of give for this year
It is time to lie down without any fear

You did enough.

The snow is falling and blanketing the earth
Sit down and be quiet and read books for mirth
If you take time to heal you do not diminish your worth.

If you want to do more then you must heal.
Heal your arms and your hands and your legs and your heels
your back and your neck so that you can feel
strength return with each sedentary meal.

Rest.

No more.

Go find a book.

When the snow is falling sit and look.

That's enough for now.

Spring is coming with it's relentless push for seeds and soil feeds and paint on your sleeves.

For now: just rest.

This has been beating in my head like a drum for about two days. This period is a real humdinger.

Loss

I support your right to make this choice.
I understand that you did not have a choice.
I don't truly respect your choice.

The cessation of pain is what matters though, right?
I am so glad you are not hurting anymore.
Now I hurt more; there's nothing I will do to ease this burden.

I miss your voice.
I miss your smell.
I miss the possibility that things could change and we could love each other without hurting each other.

I miss you.
And I miss you.
And I even miss you. Though only the Gods know why.

You only caused me pain when I asked very nicely.
You never caused me pain in any single way.
I don't know what you did except hurt me.

It doesn't seem to matter how much I love you or miss you.
Your story was really and truly never about me; I was a witness.
Even though your life could have been about me and it wasn't.

I grieve so hard for you.
Any piece of fresh grief touches the memory of you and reignites the pain afresh and the waves feel like they will swamp me.
"Have you ever lost anyone close to you?" Dripping with scorn and implication that I am not allowed to grieve for anything to do with you.

It's all tied up.
I can't separate one grief from another today.
What I know is that there are no more chances to fix anything.

There is no way to find you more help.
There is no way to find you new treatments.
There is no way to find our way to a new way of being.

You are gone.
You and
You and

Time has run out.

What does it mean to belong?

I reach for your hand, your voice, your heart, your screen name.
I want to know who you are, I want to see if we are the same.
In you I see the echo of the love, the pain, the joy I feel.
With you I manage to feel like I might be real.

I wish I didn't need you.
I wish I didn't still want to see you.
I wish I could be with you.

No matter what happens you will always be mine.
We will be connected until the end of our time.

I have touched your soul and you have touched mine and that is all it takes to belong.

I hear it is poetry month

In the course of studying for the comp exam (6 days and counting) I came across this lovely poem by William Wordsworth:

WE ARE SEVEN

——–A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad: 10
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
–Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea. 20

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!–I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we; 30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side. 40

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

“And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay, 50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.” 60

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
‘Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
1798.