I am not READY. That much is clear to me, this thing that cuts me like a SHARP knife – wait, no, that’s not it – it’s more like the exquisitely painful paper cut. The kind that takes you by surprise, that you didn’t see coming as you moved swiftly and thoughtlessly, shuffling what you had considered to be a harmless set of papers.

I am not prepared. Not to feel this creeping sense of being FRAIL, of a heaviness in my heart, the careening forward of time towards its inevitable end.

Who can be ready for the unknown? What sort of preparation is even possible when the path is not clear? FRANK, careful assessment and planning will get me only so far.

I reach for you. These dark thoughts in the dark night are isolating. The paradox asserts itself yet again: this, the most alone thing I will ever do can only be faced by not being alone.

I turn and drape my arm over you, feeling your breath. I yield, welcoming sleep, safe at last.

Georg’ann

When I marvel at softness it reminds me
of what it means to be brittle,
how easy it is to BREAK,
how easy to CRACK
and so difficult to yield.
What would it mean to move with, not against?
To step aside,
to make room,
to cushion the fall,
to part like water.

To part like water,
to hold like water
to flow like water
to steep like water
Slowly smoothing with a softness
strong enough to find its way through rock.

When I marvel at softness I’m greeted with paradox.
The essence of a Taoist PRANK,
though one that will FRANK safe passage.

When I marvel at softness I break open.

Heather