Threshhold Life

Do not call
me a dead man;

Say, rather,
unborn.

Call me not
an evil man;

Say only, “Unformed.”

Unformed,
embryonic, a teeming mass

Of cells, undifferentiated,

Potential unmapped

Unabated because
untapped.

No not evil.

I have
committed no crimes.

I am not a
devil.

But I am a
product of my times.

I have spent
my score of years and seven

Waffling
about between heaven

And the
space inside a zero.

I have built
a fortress out of sheer possibility

And I guard
its ramparts like the true hero

Of false
humility;

Firmly
entrenched in the zero space

The liminal
space

The nowhere
space

Between a
thousand “Yeses.”

Not lost;

I know
precisely where I stand

Trammeled
about by guesses

More
educated than most.

 

An acorn is
free to roll,

But not free
to grow.

No.

For that there
is a toll,

And the toll
is rootedness

Fixedness

Differentiation
in anticipation.

And before
that there must be a split

A tearing

A rupture of
the skin as from within

Tender green
and white things like earthy wings

Must thrust
through the crust into the dust

And dirt, in
search of fertile ground. It hurts.

And before
even that there must be the time

Of lying

And crying,

And dying silently
on the forest floor

Half buried
under dead leaves.

Pelted by
rain and hearing

The
snortings of pigs and scurryings of squirrels and fearing

And feeling
lost and cold, as the frost takes hold.

All too
often only thus is softened

An acorn’s
shell.

And it
cannot tell

That only
thus is it free

To be

Rooted.

1 Comment

  1. Freedom, only through death to self… true humility, vulnerability, and rootedness in God. Our hardened shells and solid bulworks are usually our fearful, but weak, attempts to hold on to the 'reality' that we have created for ourselves in what you call “that zero space.” Thanks for the thoughtful poem, I needed to read that today… it can apply in many circumstance and really emphesises trust and hope: virtues that are often lost in these days… definately the product of our times.

    God bless, and have a wonderful day.
    Frances

    P.S. It is interesting, the only poem I have written was on freedom (when I was in university). I hope you don't mind, but I am enclosing it.

    Flying, soaring, swooping,
    released from all bonds,
    airborn and free
    not like a bird which is
    caught,
    entraped, but a
    spirit soaring heavenwards

    Like

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