With Open Arms

“So I’m back to the blog scene again…”

“What’s this your third or fourth now?”

“Third—I think? Maybe fourth actually.”

“Too many if you ask me.”

“I have a limit now?”

“No, but I’m here to tell you that there is a limit.
Can’t you see that you’re in a self-destructive cycle?
You need help, and I know some people who can.”

“‘Bloggers Anonymous.’ You have to be kidding.”

ps
Pardon, Dave. Stealing conversations is a nasty habit.

feels like 23

So when the weatherman says,
“Tomorrow morning will be 30 degrees,
but it should feel like 23 with the wind.”
And the thermometer beeps on 101.2

I murmur out a promise I know I can’t keep,
“If you get up now and make it through the day,
I promise I’ll sleep all weekend.”
I chuckle. I cough. I groan.

When the alarm starts to blare,
I turn in the sheets and wonder.
I wonder a hundred excuses and a thousand whys.
Then it makes sense,
“You’re in it now.”
And I saunter off to work.

ps
II Corinthians 12:9-10

Scuffs

10 o’clock
I sat at the sink cleaning my boots
With brush in hand I worked away in some controlled fervor
Detergent, Brush, Water, Brush.
My mechanical cycle repeated.
Every cycle I would glance down at my watch.
Counting down the minutes
“five minutes,” I chanted
It became a mantra.

“one minute”
I halted to look upon what I thought would be a near perfect creation.
I expected to grin gingerly with a glow of accomplishment.
Instead, a wry frown took over my countenance
as I realized the scuffs and the nicks still remained
and I knew these scuffs ran deeper than the surface
grooving themselves a place of permanence
I knew all of my brushing, scrubbing, scraping, clawing
would only serve to highlight the gouges;
no system or perseverance on my part
could ever cover these

—these scars on my heart.