A Lonely Thread
J Ann Crowder
I want to write my heart on this page, but I fear it would not be enough to capture the entire immensity of its essence, its longing, and it’s breaking. My heart is no shell, and no secret to me. I feel her bleeding corners, her fractures, her cuts, her bruises, and when she expands or shrinks with mighty fear. Her largeness is eternity, like galaxies or the longing within the depths of an iris sunken within tears of doubt. She is both fragmented and woven back together again by a single thread holding onto to boundless possibilities, just barely because she isn’t yet fully aware. She is struggling beneath a beautiful terror of oceanic tides or shrunken within a million overwhelming landscapes of green fields extending to eternity, this struggling version of her existence ever trapped within a mere spec of time and space. Yet, a mighty room to mend resides, because there is plenty of room where eternity exists, to stir magic and to watch an unabashed sun rise from the tippy tops of cascading mountains. Though immense, these mountains, I climbed, with my heart ever so still, bound by a lonely thread, holding on, pushing through experiences of pain and an overarching feeling of defeatedness as storms danced through me, for a moment within my very own small spec of existence. Within the enormity of this reality, a miracle resides within this wonderful, continuous room to learn, to pause by nourishing streams, and to bask in a rising sunlight touching day glow on a continuous round, providing all I long for & all my heart needs, as she hangs on with the precious might of a lonely thread.
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