Rosy

 Taking a walk on the wild side. An early morning sweat as I walk down the driveway. Worship music flowing as I say not one word. Sometimes being still is being silent. I don’t need to ask anything. Simply be one with what is seen. The gravel moves along with my cadence. The sound as sweet as the music in my ears. I look around and see cut limbs that will dry out and maybe become firewood. I take a look at the trees swaying in the breezes that my hair get brushed by with every move. 

I look for the lone rose or the lone weed that shows me both are needed. The rose has its outward. The weed not so much. The weed teaches more than the rose. The weed is resilient no matter how much of a nuisance it is. I’m the weed. I may be told I’m as pretty as the rose, but to live with CP, becoming the weed is imperative. 

Being pretty gets me nowhere most days. The exterior is just the door opener. To keep the door open, the feisty weed you must morph into. The truth isn’t so pleasant sometimes. Sometimes you have to be honey, and others vinegar. I don’t like confrontation, but push come to shove, you must return punches. Learning to soar on wings not known to me before. My kindness to you is a gift from above. Don’t take it for granted. 

Lord

As you morph me

Into the creation

I’m to be

Let me fierce

When needed

Yet still 

Being soft

When necessary

Loving myself

Is the journey

I’m on

And if it

Means

Detaching

Or disconnecting

To be brought

Back to center