If I Go Empty-Handed . . .

The
quiet confusion
of a tender depression
sightless, dreary
joins with the
wet brown leaves,
matted on a deck that
swirls out into
muddy grey skies.

Here
in the stillness
of
nothing to be done
my heart aches
lost.
Harsh words come.
Wounds.
That which I
long to be
settled
clear.
They sit with me
these memories
mind-body sludge.
My arms
round & full
with their
gentle holding.

We sit.
We sit.
Then
a shift
from thoughts
and feelings.
To the center,
breath,
here.

A voice
soft
floats through me . . .

If I go empty-handed…

What if?

Tears erupt,
spill,
into
vast
warm
embrace.

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