Some days I pretend to be weak.
Weaker than I am.
When you're strong
everyone assumes you can do things
you were not built to do.
Sadness sighs out
"not again"s. I'm a bull on a hilltop,
savoring wind and a little sunshine
when the clouds give. Fists closed
on tips of grass so lucky to be.
I am you and you want to be
the fingers in a waldo
that isn't quite, but I try,
hoping it's worth my weight.
Sometimes, if you'll smile
the way I do,
nose full
of rainbows and butter moths
day dreaming
against stacked smoke,
the image comes to focus,
like rays to cut glass,
and you can see the bones,
the good bones
that make everything else
work.
The bones, the good, the tired,
bones pushed to skin and so
malnourished. So happy
if not for all they have to support.
The bones, the bones. Still loving
you, when the rest of me
cannot.
The bull in noonday.
Parked sod happy, nothing doing, hill topped.
