June 21, 2022

first lines

Sometimes, when my eyes fall to the kitchen table or the foot of the bed or the shelf 
above my desk, it feels like everything’s a few clicks away from chaos. I tell myself I’m
making piles for later, stacking the still-to-be-dones so they’re more visible, and inspire
action, etc., etc., but the truth looks more like what’s the point, or like whatever’s there
can wait, and I find myself spurred instead by the urge to make rhubarb syrup, or fold 
a piece of paper into the shape of a lighthouse, or watch birds scuttle across the lawn,
hunting for earthworms. All these methods of order and self-discipline, and my body
chooses the formless, chartless map, my heart glowing brighter the further from shore 
I go. Away from the evidence of my neglect, it turns out I am seed, scattered by a breeze
whose only purpose is to tell the first lines of a story that doesn’t need finishing.