Sunday, September 22, 2013

This Falling

This falling
I am
and we are
and it is
and this falling
is a season
and a way of life.
The fluttering pretense
the toss of the label
and the canned response.
This falling is words
landing on pages
and paychecks.
The tender crash
of old men
sitting on the edge
of the bathtub.
The razor strikes
flesh and sinew
past the falling dark.
It is hours tumbling
into days
rolled into weeks
crashing
into months and years.
Southern Comfort
without the crash and burn
just the thrum and twang
of drawl and steel string.
It's not tripping over
what's behind you
or sifting through remains.
It's the unclenched fist
after the furious fight.
It's falling out of favor
and falling into grace.
Falling into dreams
waking with the ache
of words in languages
I've never spoken
and understand
all the same.
Die Franzosen zogen nach Danzig.
Danzig fing an zu brennen,
Die Franzosen fingen an zu rennen;
Ohne Strumpf und ohne Schuh'
Rannten sie nach Frankreich zu.

It's thorns and branches
the cadence of a racing heart
falling against your ribs
like the footfall of hunters
and climbing a tree
and standing still
as statues waiting
for them to fall.
It's falling in love
with the same person
day after day after day
knowing you're safe
enough to soften
the rough edges
of your soul
to trip into yes
come closer.
Choosing to stay
I choose this heart
to have and to hold
unfold and our stories
fall away like leaves
from stark branches
Fall has always
been my season.
Falling makes
an art of letting go.

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