The fullness and
Scope of this
Gulf Stream life
And I’m right saturated and
Even bogged down while moved along.
Regardless of my desire for calmer (stagnant?) waters
I’m the mom
For all practical purposes
But all I feel is to be
“Like butter spread over too much bread”*
All these children’s questions
Charge the particles
In my like-an-old-school-tv’s
Instead of jolting to life,
Zaps already taut and sensitive fibers
And this tired old battery sparks only to grinding.
That mere machinations
Aren’t the source of life and
Just-function won’t sustain any of us.
Without the proper mechanic’s lifeblood to
Recalibrate all these lifeless moving parts we’re all just
Bound for the junk heap.
I wheel myself in for inspection:
Open the hood
Expose the innards
Wait for His assessment.
It took me way longer to get here than it takes for Him to look.
Surprisingly gentle, thorough, and quick
He fusses with something (I don’t see what) and
I expect the damage report – as ever –
To be that this time I’ve ridden too far, too long
Without this scrutiny, this help, this exposure.
Instead, He bids me turn the ignition and
– Expecting dead space –
A deep resonant purr sounds instead.
Instead of more static misfires and sparks
A healthy hum of life and connection fires full and throaty.
I shake my head in wonder and thanks and
Roll forward back into the stream
Anticipating a new horizon and steady current to
Carry me along, the Master Mechanic’s prints? My map.