Yes, I know the texture of your skin
without touching it.
Your left side
has gone somewhere else,
sending back messages,
electric flashes,
phantom signals,
like dolphins calling
each to each through a foggy sea.
Yes, I am here,
though now we invent
new ways to speak to each other;
our fears tumble underneath
our daily walk with each slow step.
I unpack boxes of books and wonder
where the mermaid sleeps,
and if the sun will rise tomorrow.
NOTE: This week's Sunday Scribblings's prompt is simply "yes". I'm not sure where the writing will go just now, for since Allen's mild stroke, all has changed. We've relocated to a new home on the west coast and happily are unpacking books we haven't seen for over two years, but I feel a great uncertainty about the future. Our new local library hasn't many books on recovering from a stroke, especially a mild one (for which we are daily grateful), we haven't seen the new neurologist yet, and although I'm working very slowly on Standing Stones, this new reality is my center.
Poignant; but writing under "Yes" it is very positive too.
ReplyDeleteEmotional words. My thoughts are with you.
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful poem that expresses your feelings at this difficult time. As you both cope with Allen's stroke I can only say write it all down, I am sure that will help.
ReplyDeleteHow very telling it is of your nature that you chose to write for the "yes" prompt. See! ...how you step through and over the uncertainty and fear, one slow step at a time!
ReplyDeleteDeeply moving. And I hope you write it all down too. Writing therapy can only help.
ReplyDeleteThank you for such a nicely penned glimpse into your struggle.
ReplyDeleteMay the fog lift from your seas with every tomorrows' sunrise.