reaching for something you can barely touch.
Your fingers brush the edge of it
a hair-breadth of a second.
Yet something locks your feet, holds your shins,
keeps you no faster than a snail's-pace.
And this constant barely-seeing and barely-touching and hair-breadth-brushing
It's hard to feel like you'll ever get there,
ever have it in your grasp.
Because as much as you wiggle your fingers
as long as you hold your breath
as long as you pray you'll reach it
Not as long as the season won't change.
Not as long as your ankles are bound.
So what exactly is holding your shins?
What clings to your knees,
glues your shoe soles to the floor?
It's not a thing of words, or substance,
or even a thing of feeling.
It's almost like an inkling,
a something that doesn't need to be a something to be a something.
It's not that this Something is a complete hindrance:
it slows you, but you are moving.
It's not that this something will keep you from reaching that which you can barely see:
you'll get there.
It's not a question of "if,"
but of "when."
- "SO IS WINTER INTO SPRING"