Most Days

Written by: Ingrid Showalter Swift

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