Always surprised by it,
I remember again:
Everything is a metaphor
if I dig down far enough
if I breathe quietly and
hold out my hands.
Don’t search frantically,
as if looking for a lost child
or digging out after a snow storm.
Search patiently, by
waving as the children go, by
walking through the snow as it falls,
wearing the scarf you knit for me,
your cure for stress
warmed and woven by your hands.
Wrapped in your cure, I walk through
snow and metaphors thick on the ground
and falling fast–
Glistening in my hair,
Melting into my skin.
You stun me my friend. Your open trust of metaphors delivered; never appearing before the frantic, demanding mind. What is it we’d find if we dared to unclench and sit thoughtfully, quietly?
Me? I’d find you.
Hey! Hey look at you all commentingish! My dear friend, perfect as you are, no metaphor needed.