2.2
January 14, 2009

Sadness Is. (A little poem)

Sadness is 
breathing out.
A sigh.

Sadness is 
quiet…like just after a Rocky Mountain wind storm roars past, and it begins to die down, and there’s the passing remnants—the old and sick, and tired and young breezes that follow the greater mass of the bilious heavenly herd and—

Sadness is 
soft and textured and sharp and empty, all at the same time.

It looks outside of itself and says, “Why, I’m good, what am I doing wrong?”
It’s a wound in the heart! It’s fresh air, a gap in the window, a draft.
It’s a small death…a pre-death rehearsal for the real deal.
…An acknowledgement that time is passing, tick tock, and precious. 
A reminder that life is fun and happy and fleeting: 
“Grab it, live it!”
Sadness is
your past saying, “Live your present before it joins us in the irrevocable shadows.”

Poetry is 
bullshit, often
but sometimes it’s an exhale, 
when words and sense won’t do
a breathing out of one’s unresolved thoughts into
space
and then, when ready, breathe in, smile, life and color and that girl and those friends and drinks and adventures and fresh air and easy love and heartbreak returns

And then, you’re ready, 
to be sad again.

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