A Stand-Up Routine

pine tree

 

It will take more than a chiropractor

to straighten her out.

When life’s bones are this brittle, misaligned,

misplaced, walking with

a limp is the least of her worries. Her

backbone has been broken more times than she

can count; self-splinting

has bred tendons spliced to indifferent

saviours, treacherous

lovers bent on abandonment. Self-doubt

leaches confidence

as surely as osteoporosis

saps strength and posture;

she raises tentative fingers, branches

clawing heaven’s door,

straining against the scoliosis scars

to grasp a sliver

of the blue she’s always known she can reach

if she stands up tall.

 

 

As the Wheel Turns

yellow aspen (1)

 

And the colour wheel cranks out

its liturgy – opposites 

make the best bedfellows,

draw out the richest blooming.

.

So too this heart, when double

crushed, rises atmospheric

to negate the blow. So too 

this spirit, pinned to velvet

specimen case, dead carcass

to be pitied, inspected,

finds truest freedom within

its prison walls, flying high

above those who would take it

captive, coerce dignity,

boxing it in mere metal

and glass. Deepest pain reflects

truest beauty, once redeemed.

.

And the colour wheel cranks out

its curriculum – bluest 

skies display the purest gold.