In these moments of becoming, over time,
we passed our histories across tables and
channels and we followed crude maps.
Where to? Some knowing, we hoped
but would not say. We named instead
our somewheres, each seeming distinct.
Maybe what pained us then was knowing
that none of us could arrive ––anywhere
or ever––except with these others, strangers,
and each seeming bound to separate yesterdays
amid the crossing and re-crossing
of inherited meanings intended with such
density of intention that we could hardly
move anywhere before one or another
of our limbs were caught again in our own
nets and we were forever stopping to
unknot. That was most of our trouble,
Grumbling over losses and expenditures
and the cost of the voyage, we could contrive
no value except from what was
freely given. Eventually, we gave ourselves
up to the net, and it wrapped us in its ties
and we dropped our sails, and surrendered
to move by nothing but the current
and whatever was binding us. What
was it? We hoped it knew us. We
waited and were silent, bound.
2 thoughts on “Knots”
So powerful, Stacey. I’m thankful you are not waiting, ‘silent, bound.’
I am so thankful we are connected, Ryn.