Most Days

Most days By Ingrid Showalter Swift Most days I am really truly But then……………………… flowing in like an iceberg that was off at sea now come to shore once more with the stinging knives…long tentacle fingers of searing …. Cold it smashes the shore ripping my pretty shells off the reef and stopping to silvered sudden silence............. the lovely waves of joy or too...it is as if I am a tapestry the top layer has many brilliantly died threads some even glisten as Gold and Silver and pulse intertwiningly with rich jewel tones and ambers and soft areas of downy whites and creams ....that throw light up onto the ceiling and walls like a crystal spinning But beneath there is an undulating world of dark blue rivers baring your name they swirl in eddies within me and sometimes they rise …and rise and rise and rise till they…flood the surface blurring then block..it all out and all I can feel or see is the loss of you your very ……………….goneness and your own loneliness…your solitude in the sounds of your shop metal is moving nothing soft and blond or me anywhere to be seen except on that one lone shelf where my very tattered pages move gently every time you pass by moving like seaweed dancing in the swirls of the sea or leaves in the trees caught in your spirit's breeze