Do It Again

You can check-out any time you like
But you can never leave ~ The Eagles

I’m so done

like the buffleheads fleeing

their feast two weeks early,

the paltry offerings of this winter-

wrecked lake no longer fetching.

Migrating en masse

and who can blame them,

though the waters will suffer

tomorrow in the warm and

wild proliferation

of mollusks and all the larvae

spared with the seeds

of pondweeds and bullrushes.

Will they feed the fish,

or does this tip the scale,

like imbalance

tilts clothes hangers

during an earthquake, 

that startling slide-tinkling metal

that wakes you in a cold sweat

as you realize that gravity

can’t be counted on,

not always.

In the aftershocks

all the difficult

people grouchy and sullen,

I want to ascend

declare

I’m outa here

but I sit

just a bit

longer, releasing the need

to feed the closet

righteousness, mirrored here

even in the fast-tracked

migration of my cousins.

Written while ruminating on feast, paltry, closet, fetching, and The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible by Charles Eisenstein.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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