"stretching bridges across ravines
everyone else called endings."
I have at least two women inside me...
the one who stretches bridges over ravines,
and tells herself she's being naive and pollyanna,
but stretches anyway;
and the other who stares into the ravine and says its over.
They're slowly learning to walk hand in hand with
a lean toward the bridge while recognizing endings
are real, with something unseen beyond them
which just might surprise us.
". . .a wilderness where scars are simple treerings
. . .one touches to see time."
The idea of recalibrating scars to treerings intrigues me.
I am thinking of the treerings as the tree's journal...
a unique record of one individual's circle through time.
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