Poem: there’s always only love

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

I can’t sleep.

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.

 

*This poem was recently published in Rebelle Society – check it out here!

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