a less than restful sleep due to
contemplation, remembrance, nostalgia
and things lost from sight and memory.
past losses and present pain, confusion
and denial, yearning and anger hissing
and winding around my spine. I rise and
stumble through morning ablutions, feeling
the burn of muscles long disused, and
check the gauze and metalwork, still
visible in my chest.
I inhale; the patchwork holds, as it held
the day before, committing me to action
beyond the cottage. so much left to do: repair
the wall, hang the gate, plant the bulbs and
clear the garden plot. step by step, walking
forward, because no other direction is
it takes time I'm surprised I have to
lift each section of the gate into
position. I pour mortar in each hole, piling
rocks around the bases, and tie each
length of wood to embedded metal bars on
each side of the gate. Given time, those rods
will be buried again, layers of smooth stone
concealing what lies within. but that's a
repair for another day. today is the gate, tied
into place, fixed to the earth, held until
it stands on its own. much like me, save
there is no holding, and really, that's
part of the problem.
another work break, gathering of simple
tools, and I sit by damp earth, digging holes
with a rusted trowel. I tip a bulb or a
few shining seeds into each one. I work and
breathe, lift and pour, dig and turn, and
it is meditative in its own way while
the gate mortar sets. the sun wheels overhead
within clouds, citrine set against moonstone
and opal, and I vow yet again I will find my
sunhat in the attic.
tomorrow, I rebuild the wall. the gate will be
set and locked. the flowers will be planted, to
sleep until they wake in shoots of green, flowering
into color and life. the bundles of drying herbs
still scent the air, and I can tentatively agree
that life may, one day, be beautiful again.
until then, there is the wall, and the gate, and
the lock that holds it fast. I should never
have let it get to this.