pause.

a voice
still
speaking in a whisper.
in tones that resemble something electric and fueled by
fire.
cracking, spitting, hissing.
silent.

I walk to the edge of the treeline. you, young buck,
stand and wait and watch
and then,
return to your snacking,
turning green leaves with the whip of your tongue.
pausing mid chew to contemplate
my presence,
my scent,
my invitation
to allow me to be here. quietly, reverently,
respectfully.

let me take you in.
let me stand next to the magic of you
and try to recall who I've become in this magic-less world
that has bruised my hope.

let me stand next to the certainty of you
and try to remember who I am or who I am
to become.
I feel still full with sleep and do not know
how to waken from a dream that leaves me
restless.

how, I wonder, has the world continued on
while I've stuttered at a pause,
surprised that I am older
and feeling, still, so small and
untethered.

do words like right or wrong belong anywhere in this world?
or shall I sail them from my lips and let
them land and lie and languish
in the sliding summer sun?

thank you for your permission
to let me stand next to the
wisdom of you
and try to forgive my own fears.