You Are Still.

You are still
the invigorating icy splash
into December’s midnight air
through this stubborn… sliding… glass

You still carry me
into Your ineffable expanse,
Stars burning white
against infinite black space.
“Commensurate to [our] capacity for wonder”

Your still hands
cut the silhouettes of these ancient oak-drenched hills
and contrast them aglow
against the phosphorescent blue of Your midnight sky

You are the muse of the Miwoks, the Modocs, and modernity–

And I am somehow still
your little girl,
who’s cried to You
through screens and panes
for all the weary
screams and pains
of we who need
Your Stillness.

I am still
somehow Your little girl–
all grown.
without substance without You,
Suffocated still at times by “shoulds”
successful yet still broken
in beautiful ways
so. small.



*qtd. from the closing of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

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