When I walk into an awkward
pause, the words hang in the air
like gauze. I push past their
flimsy veil; words rarely tell.
If they are still around
after the echoes have died,
you can bet that they were lies.
A false lead, no reason to inspect.
Feelings, however, I respect,
they dangle like vividly colored
brush strokes in a sunrise by Monet.
They easily point out the way
people suffer, stuck
in unresolved trauma, never
free to step from the muck
into the future, they project the past
repeatedly, so that I meander
through the exhibitions that last
for generations, secrets on display
for the cluster of ghosts
frozen with the need to have their say.
What’s an empath to do?
It’s time to hang my shingle
soon, not as a healer,
I’ll simply tune in, summon
fresh breezes to sweep away
the clutter in this new space
we create together, give
the body’s intelligence a place
to break the ice, unfold, stretch
beyond ancient restraints, to live
the spacious life that love can paint.