Seventeen of Thirty
Unique Words: One Hundred and Seventy-Eight
There's a stunning scene above me today,
the sky painter has been busying himself with the intricacies of detail.
He allows the Sun to delicately pass
through an abandon of heavy cloud.
It is as if the edges of thickness are fringed for her arrival
- light rests upon their layers, dyeing lulls of languid grey in intense golden hues.
He keeps her, our shared Sun, shielded
enough that my green eyes can admire her -
as if she was the moon.
I stroke the rosemary while sipping fresh coffee. The thorn in my side awoken - screaming from an upstairs window
slicing through the peace.
I pour hot liquid onto compost,
chase my tail to the door,
kick muddy boots,
bolt up the stairs.
There is he, her already on his knee,
for the umpteenth time.
This is where I hit a decision
to hover in the doorway, in this moment with him, to watch, to preserve in my memory,
to possibly ruin it when she sees my face and wants milk
or turn back,
return to my internal monologue of calm,
potter and re-sink my soul in the quietness of it
yet perhaps make him feel like I heard
but didn't come to help.
I sit on the stairs, wait until they've finished and she groans.
the next shift.
Friend, love is largely about sacrifice, compassion when compassion is hard,
forgiveness when you think you haven't the ability,
setting selfishness aside, feeling their feelings
or trying to
and in truth my support is not for her comfort -
and has always been, for his.