HAND. LAND. MEANS OF SUPPORT.

Hand.
Land.

Such means,
which range
from well seen
to unseen,
of support,
more vital
than such thick walls
as bar all possible admittal
to the most fortified
war fort.

Having such strong underpinning
often differentiates so much
from not having
as to whisper me
from win to loss,
or loss to winning–

It’s truly of such great import.

For just knowing that is there,
allows me to relax,
or else,
to dare.

Hand for my hand–
help for direction,
scratching back,
doing zippers, buttons,
or small shoe laces
to perfection,

or brushing off
the on-feet, post-beach
stuck-on sand.

And land
that forms a ground
to take
my feet and weight,
bones to oppose my moving muscles,
contain my organs and corpuscles,
to hold my head,
my back,
yea, my whole body,
on my own two legs quite straight

to rise toward
the skies and air
to make sense of who-,
and what-, and wherever I am
wheresoe’er
at any given time I’ll be,
around this Earth,
my native place
in which I’m still immersed,
for good (or worse),
this right-now place,
which I now
hear, feel, see, smell–
and even taste–
above below,
and all around.

The stuff of me
and of my vicinity
that’s sweetly soft
and steady, sturdy,
must each play their role,
against each other
lest I get too terse or wordy,

to keep me in this world
where I now live,
while I move
in my own pace,
to something maybe
much more grand. . .

On the condition
that I can stay compact enough
and yet expand
to open me enough
past the growing trail I’ve left behind,
and road-fork choices
I now face,

perchance the strength
I’ll be able then to find,
to advance to that next new place,
when is tendered,
God’s ever-present,
ne’er well-foretold
nor fully understood
sweet Grace.

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This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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