Into What Is Real

 















Weak she thought she was

In need of your affirmation

Perhaps in some moments

She was

Indeed

But alas she moved

Across oceans, across cities

One by one she found

Moments

Glimpses

Of what could be

Questioning at times

Where it could lead

Harsh words you hurled,

If her departure was true-

She was bound only to hell,

Away from good graces,

The only requisites to love.

She was taught-

Alternative facts-

Pretty works too,

Others’ graces gained,

But just as easily lost,

As their basic views,

Constrained her.

The tendrils of her hair,

Knotted in their fists.

A bit rough,

But intact,

Quietly realizing

It was always her choice,

To remain in that river.

She lunged out.

Away from the patriarchal expectations,

For the first time,

She gazed up at the hot sun.

On her own

She plucked up a lily that’d grown

By her side as she swum

Then

Walking the path,

Between silver birches and giant oaks

Still in the river’s sight,

She tucked the bud into her tangles.

And laughed

What a ride she’d had,

Surrounded by farcical doctrine

Nearly caught in its snares.

Lightly running now

“Farewell, old river!”

She bids it, and all of its inhabitants,

In sincerity, she hopes, she yearns

That some will walk free also,

They often call out,

Vocals distorted by the current,

Rejoin!  Rejoin!

Sorrowfully, she wishes she could help,

But she can no sooner give up her liberty,

Than she could give up her very life.

Occasionally, tossing in a raft, a ladder

A word of empowerment.

Sometimes it is lonely upon the shore.

Longing for this or that one to join

This new frontier  

But much travel awaits

As those further than her

Reach also, bringing her forward

Into their embrace

Into what is real.

©  Amanda Whitmore 2017, Shareable with author's written permission.