Just that time of year

I struggle today in the name of us, a difficult day to find faith in our path,

focus my mind on conversations not yet had, unable to quell parts unanswered.

I know you are busy now, hundreds of miles off and away.

Unresolved in my own efforts to make sense of all that is and all that will be,

losing traction, I am unled. I do not feel led.

Words you spill to calm the water warm as they are lack substance and body,

and worry these are old wounds I can’t help but pick. It is the time and space

between where raw edges bud their heads in the sun.

Are these old habits that fester and pull me to stray? Withdraw into a shell

so small only toes jet out and I am untouchable. A cold home of a child alone.

I am doing my best, believe.

So badly to follow you, a want that feels unquenched, a path that wavers,

where do you go?

The bathwater is half salted by just my eyes and it is hardly noon.

One year ago I wrote that we were falling quietly apart, separate paths pulling us

away as tides. Faith is renewed as I write today, though in source not us.

How far can a sea-swallowed noted bottle travel in one night?

I domesticated myself to you. Us is a bigger concept than I.

Where will the horse go, off lead and alone, under setting big sun?

Just that time of year, I suppose.