[I don't poetry much.]
Maybe they are like the ember
that hurts when held tight
but when released kindles flame that the heart leaps to see.
Maybe they are like the grain of sand
that is covered by smooth hard layers
slowly, one by one, year by year
until the pearl is found, shining and lustrous
hiding the sharp edges deep inside.
Maybe they are like small stones
light but dense
when multiplied heavy as the world.
Maybe they are like the shoe
that rubs and chafes and galls
and makes callous what once felt the soft grass.
This is true: they are holding the breath
and stopping the tongue
and damning the self
that by nature must flow, must be free.