I think we can all relate to when “The days wouldn’t translate into a phrase”—when fragile hopes and desired plans are translated into loss too wrenching to articulate even to ourselves, and we must surrender to grace. I appreciate the tension cultivated in your precision of phrase in conveying pain that resists naming.
When you don’t recognize the sound of your own voice, when someone/something has been messing with the gravity switch again, dialing it up 3 notches…who is still noticing the skimming clouds, the snagging prongs, the sharp smell of chlorine? 🌬️☁️
I think we can all relate to when “The days wouldn’t translate into a phrase”—when fragile hopes and desired plans are translated into loss too wrenching to articulate even to ourselves, and we must surrender to grace. I appreciate the tension cultivated in your precision of phrase in conveying pain that resists naming.
When you don’t recognize the sound of your own voice, when someone/something has been messing with the gravity switch again, dialing it up 3 notches…who is still noticing the skimming clouds, the snagging prongs, the sharp smell of chlorine? 🌬️☁️
"in cricket-dense quiet." ... what a phrase! This one line is just so beautifully vivid. And such a great piece overall. Bravo!!! ☺️
Love this! Feel it.