Bio Note: This fall I have been painting, creating collage and mixed media pieces, reading more than usual (poetry and flash fiction, mainly), writing, tending my native garden, and feeding a flock of finches. My poems have appeared in various journals over the years, and this year I sold a few small paintings.
The rational me had lost control of the steering, my hands unsure where to be, feeling in my fingertips intensified by desire and greed. Our legs tangled, and we didn’t know when, if ever, to apply the brakes. Here was the clutch, his palm on my breast. His lips pressed my mouth, my neck. It took two for this excursion on an unmarked path along which we improvised signals. We cared where we’d end up, yet the journey was almost all. We somehow stayed on track, never landing in a ditch. Each of us both key and ignition switch, the accelerator pressed down, then let up. That journey we took together was a long while ago, a trip I had only understood in theory until then, the road map having been withheld—although, I doubt it would have helped. Student drivers, we passed the test, the one requirement, our willingness.
Patience doesn’t tap a foot or jiggle a leg or let out long slow breaths meant to be audible. It doesn’t shake its head or turn its head away or roll its eyes or knock its head against a wall. Patience doesn’t say “Hey, hurry up,” or “Get a move on.” It isn’t prone to keep repeating “What?” voice rising, tone grown harsh, when someone speaks too softly to be clear. It says “I didn’t catch what you were saying. Could you please repeat?” It’s willing to articulate long detailed sentences, provide instructions several times if needed. It will give encouragement, such as, “Don’t worry, everyone internalizes what they learn at their own pace,” rather than “Would it help if I tattooed this on your arm?” Like a doctor, patience takes an oath to do no harm. It is the antithesis of the urge, which Impatience indulges, to snap and snarl. It does not pace. It takes a casual stroll, and back home, places loose tea in the cup, then closes both eyes, meditates rather than watch the water in the pot. Its weave has no overt objection to the meandering thread. When pressed or pulled, it is able to stretch. It’s like a crack in the pale parched desert trusting that rain will fall.
©2022 Lavina Blossom
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