It’s Always Only Love (poem)

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

 

It’s Always Only Love

I can’t sleep and even the bed, worn and crinkled and dampened with sweat, becomes a rejection of everything I am,

And the storm that started hours ago as a lighthearted rain has quickened, maddeningly, lashing now and showing no sign of passing by.

She invites me into her unfurling movements filled to the very edges of all things with grace, and I submit, because I can’t think of what else I can do.

Ask your questions, the storm tells me, making sounds that shake the bones but ensure that I am rooted here, where I’m afraid to be.

The storm knows that I still need to ask questions, even though I’ve had hints that there are other ways of reaching truths. She knows I still have so many, and they arise often, so I tell them to the howling wind, like this:
Why am I always seeking and what am I looking for?

Why do I always feel I am falling?

But why am I afraid of this, of falling?

Why do I always feel there must be something more to all of this life?

Why do I feel that happiness can only be found elsewhere, and why can I conceive of happiness but not actually have it?

Why is the mind so strange that it can form questions that it can’t answer?

What is the nature of nostalgia, longing, missing, that it floods me with feelings that have no object?

Why do things feel more broken than whole?

Why do I feel lonely?

Why does it take me until the very end of all things to realize that all of this has everything to do with love, and only with love?
The storm takes me in her arms. I can actually feel the warmth on my skin, despite the raging nature of her essence.

She tells me that it doesn’t matter how long it takes to come to love, because love isn’t going anywhere, and will happily wait until it is recognized by every single one of us.

Even me? The question is tiny and frail. I am a little girl again.

Yes, even you. Of course, even you.

The tears and the rain mix together. I keep talking to the storm.

Have I left any kind of legacy? I ask. I guess I’ve only ever wanted small things, less even, than I thought.

Just quiet days for reaching in, deep inside, yellow butterfly love surrounding me until we are the same thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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