Muddling Through

poem in prose

Photo by Irina Iriser on Unsplash

I am killing Alisha’s houseplant without meaning to: roses fade, lilies thrive, leaves wither and crispen. I am flourishing grumpily, with the tenacity of breathing that is hampered but habitual.

I am walking into my fifty-seventh April on the qui vive for signals from forsythia that it is OK to be bright and yellow. I am looking toward the reckless hilarity of Nature, the rank unfreezing of rejuvenating earth.

I am admiring the souls that Circumstance or Providence is placing along my path, in my immediate vicinity: the companionable rebel, shy creative powerhouse in flannel shirt and Converse high-tops; the progressive pastor in upstate New York, abashing my heart with timeless truth, newly and freshly articulated. When she speaks, I gladly surrender my attention.

I am the votary and vassal of the feral women on Threads. I am fighting Despair with coffee and iambic. I am paying abject homage to the light from last year’s lilacs, to the mute pulse of stone, to Federico Garcia Lorca. And here’s the part I am hesitant to say: my heart is enthralled by a friend whose very name is prayer.

May I be honest? I’m really just muddling through.