by Addra Bliss S.
At times I feel myself
(though young)
Ancient, jaded,
Too stiff to bend, too tired to stand
Ornery.
But at the same time, I feel too young
(I hope someday to grow)—
I lack deep roots to hold me up,
And reach wisdom’s rushing water.
Still:
Deep inside,
In my heart of hidden chambers even I can’t comprehend,
Light spills beneath a door,
And I hear, like windchimes
In a playful breeze,
The tinkling laughter
Of a child.
For I am a daughter of bright things.
And those small hands and wriggly dances and free grins
Are still within me—
Stirring:
As I catch words of light in a cup too full and spill messy glow on the carpet
Stirring:
As I babble excitement and life and aliveness none understand
Though many have felt.
Stirring:
As I let slip a tiny gasp of wonder
At the tinted blush of the evening walk sunset
At the sparkles of sun on the sled ready snow
At the stars that shine in the darkest night, in my fiercest fear,
Then fall like fairy jewels I can catch if I just reach
My tiny, giddy body
Far enough.
Stirring,
Ever stirring,
In the home calling warmth
Of greater, Godly, bright things.
