I opened my blinds
that span my entire wall,
allowing the daylight in.
From a couch cushion across the room
I make out the tallest of tree peaks,
peering over my window pane.
I’m practicing loosening my relationship with control,
one form of exposure at a time.
I notice that the building next door is taller than any tree in my sight line.
I notice that clouds form a pirouette around the outer corner of the top floor,
molded into the radius is roundness.
Edges not the loudest or most obvious aspect,
decreasing in size against nature’s colors.
Gesturing is reserved for what the mind’s eye
pulls down to wrap itself within.
Light can touch what fingers can’t grasp,
filling what has been decluttered
with its blinding fullness.
Swirls of butterflies rise within my stomach,
coaxed into agitation.
Not the synonym for anger, but the fixture of any catalyst.
That sensation of willing yourself to react
to the presence of a change within you.
Knowledgeably attracted to ingredients you did not first bring together.
Maybe it’s only random to see signs of the fantastic,
but maybe that’s another meaning of fantastic.
Thought to be unreal.
Spooky to digest.
Wondrous to experience.
Known, like control is known.
Tempered by the difference contrasted in all that we want,
with all that we have willed.