consolation

I could be consoled
with much less effort
than it takes to chase a fly from my face:
a smile, a nod of approval,
the touch of a hand.

But I prefer not,
I rather prefer
holding on to this self-criticism of mine:
useless, shameless,
a prison of guilt.

Natural
in human terms
a desire, like the gravity of the earth:
pulling, holding its own,
escape disallowed.

Supernatural
in human terms,
an ability to rend the chains and fly:
free flight, passing the clouds,
transcending the rules.

I could be inspired
with much less effort
than it takes to take one step forward:
I can, I am alive,
I will always be.

I prefer this,
prefer to conclude
escape from this habitual gravity:
look up, reflect on life,
transform into gold.



old crow 1995 © garnet robbie