If it was a quarrel with myself—then I’m not sure who won.
Maybe all the dust and dreams began to fog my view, maybe the duel was settled
With lemonade and shortbread cookies
Maybe all along I wanted to argue with others—because it exhausts you like running in place to fight against one whose victory is needed for survival
Did the flow of the river stop?
It had no choice but to wind and seep and even though the struggle has gone silent, it still has
No choice but to wind and seep.
Watery words whisper now
And diapers and papers to sign clamor like dogs ignored after absence
What once seemed magical is now like myth
Cloudy yet piercing
What once seemed like death
Now is day by day, night by night.
And the argument—still boiling, has its’ heat reduced
and is left at the far burner to stew.