To Recover
A tender feather
Is ‘Better’,
Of a swan or a blackbird –
The soft tickle of fine fibres
Brushing by my flesh,
Yet beware, sharp prick of the point pierces deep –
A smiling, smirking scream,
Be careful,
Be careful, the wind –
A leaf glides on the membrane of water,
Streaming tears on the cheek,
But with little feet I plant myself,
Rooted in stones –
Stones of reality,
Hard
And real,
Stones of reality,
Real –
The journey to ‘Better’ –
Strenuous, long –
A winding path is pastures;
The sky does twist,
He blows me down
And I must myself get up –
Or a story, rough,
Unbeknown of yet –
Painful pride seeps through pages, pages;
Pride ‘I’ll make it’
‘I made it’
‘I made it’
And the quieting pain of ahead.
- Alice West
