Out of Reach

The corn stalks are silvery with dusk and frost.

The cello solo on the radio is the voice of my heart: aching, heavy, skirling, edgy, grieving.

I’m late heading home, once again, due to work and traffic and too much of both.

This universe has not enough time or space.

My life is a trail of fragments and shards, haphazard.

The sky is light still, the land dark. It is impossible to tell which silhouettes which.

The music has crescendoed and faded. I now hear French lyrics, my mother tongue. But in this song, it is unintelligible – I understand one word in five.
It seems as if this is perpetually true – as if I go about each day understanding only snippets, soundbites, spoken in accents too strange and dialects too fast for consumption.
Result: constant bewilderment.

My sorrow is a weight on my chest, a wait on my self.

It pervades my pulse.

The open sky mocks my lack of wings.


1 comment so far

  1. Moosilaneous on

    Each line resonates with me, and fills me with gladness that my experience is shared.
    But the whole hurts my heart.

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