maybe I like to walk on sand for the glow that uncertainty gives me
the smallest grains of stone slipping away beneath my feet
maybe I am tired of being so certain
soft imprints on a beach full of cutting shells, broken glass, nigh-perfect smoothed rocks
you can't tell what kind of footprints, only that something walked there
the one who holds certainty for everyone
not made inconsequential by the size of the grains
well, have
you ever tried to sweep away the beach
small things don't make lesser problems
and I've tried being the uncertain one [ha.]
the same way tides wash away marks, the place my trust should be
fills in with sand and weltschmerz
[a word which here stems from
strain forever placed on the reflexive
persuasion, unflinching assurances,
like a muscle taxed too long in one hold,
afforded to those surrounding me]
credit is due, because twice or thrice I have
let my hidden guards down to be met with a cradle
high-beach sand, dry, packed, purified by wind, steadied by grasses
safety net cradling a line, It Will Be Okay
brief respites of rest to re-center, re-cross, re-construct
splinters of time where I can balance on the shifting ground of
support that is almost sufficient
an almost-perfect spiral shell, a sad surprise of blackened sea creature
more often I hold myself
caught with the knowledge that best is sometimes not enough
making me remember to keep pushing
so much like playing tag with the tide
