This Respite

This Respite

When did we become trapeze artists?
During our respite from each other?  Before?

We keep swinging, arms outstretched,
and miss.

Good intentions aside,
we just don't seem to be in sync.

Times like these, I'm relieved
we have a net below.

But how many times must I fall
before I realize

how delicate is this dance we call
marriage? 

Each time back up the ladder,
I'm that much more hesitant

to let go, to risk another
mis-connection.

Today, I thought we were headed
into each other's arms

but again, there was air
where their should have been skin.

And I sit here, staring up at the unfathomable distance
waiting for you to let loose your grip on the bar, 

We take turns looking up while the other looks down, afraid,
of showing our weak side, trusting completely, lest we be let down. 

Perhaps it is in the falling
that we might finally find stillness,

the time to reconnect, reset our clocks,
to become again two beings in tandem.

~

Our respite is over,
but our feet untold the ride has ceased,
still wait for the world to stop spinning. 

We are two survivors
having learned to appreciate stillness
after the earthquake,
both a little too shell shocked, too raw
to jump head first into the act of playing house.

But where to start, how to stop tip-toeing on eggshells?
There are just no instruction manuals for ending a respite
one did not choose to begin. 

Perhaps we could start with a little hand holding
while we keep our feet planted firmly on the circus floor.
Maybe then, we cannot miss each other

when finally we are ready to risk

connection. 





SWPoet
6-23-12
Revised
8-13-12