Going Back

Going Back


Feet padding straight
down the hall
into the nightmare
itself without stopping


We scoop great purple
handfuls of it onto
our heads, its sour
benediction sharp
on the tongue.


whine shave and a haircut, two bits

we begin again, but
only now 
after the wine
after the fire


Deep.
The hollows of winter
come again.
Memories, unbottled, scurry
themselves into the corners and snicker.
Orphans swarm the leaves
and are eaten by ladybugs.
Man noise rattles the aspens.


I am one who consumes.
I eat my words
and everything else.


Still we begin again
The day begins again




This is why we train, I think.  We train not so we get somewhere with something, or so that we accomplish something, but so that we learn we must always go back and begin again.  I couldn't run for three weeks because of a flu that wouldn't go away, and still I picked up my shoes and began again this week, huffing, puffing, and trudging down the street.  I might have a meditation session where for the whole ten minutes I think only of the new eyeshadow I want to try.  And still I will meditate again today, and will maybe have a few minutes of quiet.  I use harsh words with my girls, forgetting how much more powerful and effective love is.  Still I will try again to come to them with love.  We train not to move forward, but so that we don't forget to always come back.  To always try again.