Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy, and all the tricks my body knows ― the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps, and the mind clicking and clicking — don’t seem enough to carry me through this world and I think:From “Spring Azures” by Mary Oliver
how I would like to have wings — blue ones — ribbons of flame. How I would like to open them, and rise.
If only there was a way to let it all be free, to open myself like a cookie jar, emptying out the rotten contents for the birds to peck away at in their hunger. If I could guess I would say that even the birds would refuse it. Poison of the mind cannot purify itself…
