This is that time of year for new-
Ness and hope,
Blooming and growth,
Every year a little more,
Little closer to that Great Shift.
I measure it by March,
By April, by May,
And, by May, it usually sinks in.
Not like quicksand, but
Like a ball
in a joint.
Here I am in my own happiness
And I feel, sometimes, I barely fit.
Is it wrong or hurtful to say that?
It is not what I mean.
It is like a wondering, a not trusting
Of happiness.
A resurgence, somewhat,
of adolescence.
This is our dance,
less and less macabre,
As we, like a ball in a joint,
sink in. Assume our roles,
move around less.
Yet we are far
from stagnant.
It has been said that
the worst thing is not
To be alone, but to be surrounded
By those who make you feel alone.
I wonder about this and
I cannot say for sure: what's worse or
When each was happening.
Sometimes--Alone feels not too far from
Out At a Party or With Old Friends.
You understand? The lines
Can be very
thinly drawn.
Sometimes, it is only an inch away
From fullness, contentment.
He rages against the term:
Unsettled.
And how do I so offend?
It was just a way
of communicating:
Bad feeling,
needs sorting out or sep-
Arating from.
Space, please! From
that thought or
idea or feeling.
. . .
The clouds here look unsettled--
So I wait for them to pass.
Since I've begun,
So have they, to go.
What do semantics matter
when you're here,
Still, in happiness,
Waiting for the change?
For the light?
It is what we wake up for,
Sometimes, in the grey
And the cold and the dark.
So I wear unsettled like a badge,
Proud
but removable
at every next breath.
