on the edge
Old post circa November 2016
I’m sitting on the edge of a cliff. Or maybe I’m camped here?
There’s clouds beneath my feet and if I just stretch my toes I can touch them.
Stretch them like a ballerina.
A hippopotamus ballerina.
Anything is possible, right? Why not a hippopotamus dancing across the clouds.
You’d think it isn’t possible to be air and stone at the same time but it is.
I mean, my butt is plastered to the stone beneath me.
I’ve been sitting here so long that I don’t think either the ground or I remember where rock starts and flesh begins.
Weeds thrive in the creases where dust collected, an anthill is growing alongside one thigh.
My hair in all its woolly glory is become a nest.
It’s empty now.
Where are the birds who call me home? Were there ever any?
I realize that I am like a forgotten statue, withering, becoming one with nature.
But I am me and I am alive.
Am I waking up?
I am. I am waking up.
But wait, if I do that then what happens to the nest on my head and the ants by my thigh, the dandelion using me as shelter from wind and rain?
My eyes are open wide but I blink away a fog, inside and out.
I am tattered inside and out.
I am afraid to stretch, to be fully awake.
The ants, the birds, they are an excuse.
An excuse for what?
I look.
Really look, into the distance, a field of clouds, sunkissed red, orange, and gold.
A floor for this hippopotamus to be light.
I look and I remember.
I am still afraid to fly.
hi! thanks for commenting. I'm always open to new ideas. I can't wait to hear yours.