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It is the earth of the garden
That my bare feet touch and recognise
With each season and it is the sound of
My neighbour's voice in the distance.
It is the ceiling, the floor, the door
That I enter, exit, enter, exit, enter
At the end of a hard day and close firmly.
It is the playful nudge from the friend
Who reads my expressions over coffee
And cake and her encouraging smile
That knows what I'm going to say next.
It's the falling asleep, slight dribble,
In the big comfy armchair and the book
With the curled pages, read and cogitated
Umpteen times, and the scraggy blanket
Warming my lap.
It is the finger twisting of my hair
The spot popping
The toe nail clipping
The baggy knickers wearing
The no make up day
The ink all over my fingers day
The I have nothing that needs to be done day
The I am my own goddess day
The I feel free to stay in the moment day
No need to jump ship, or feeling like it's a case of swim or sink,
searching for driftwood to hang onto or armbands to keep me afloat
No undercurrents dragging me down.
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