Some days I look above my head and see
A hand that flexes, jumps, and, startled, vanishes.
Its partings leave
A sense of vacancy,
As if to say, ‘The sort of mind that banishes
Its puppeteer
Begins to veer
Too near
The wind.’
As if that hand,
Now ravelled in unseeable blank sleeve,
Had been the plotting force that pinned
My life in place and made it go as planned.
That’s what I guess but, soon enough, this goes
When, glancing down, I spot organic links
Clasping my feet
And grass about my toes,
Green Earth’s effusive countenance, which thinks
It knows my mind
And, sure, I find
Its twined
Support
And givingness
A gentle guidance, patterned and complete.
I realise that the hand I thought
Was besting me had only meant to bless.