I am soft.

I am soft

I am not a strong wall of stones, layered brick by brick with enough mortar to hold off the load of whatever sits behind it.

I am organic.

Made of moving parts. Limbs. Leaves that wilt in the fall and come off revealing stretch marks and scars.

I am not smooth.

I don’t go in one direction.

I pull and twist. Turning like highways through the mountains.
I am green in the spring, blooming flowers and ideas.

I am grey in the winter, new growth dying inside me.

I am not vertical or horizontal.

Instead I am grass covered hills, going both ways but neither.

Curved in the best places and the most inconvenient.

I am not sad.

I am not happy.

I am stuck, somewhere in between.

Wondering if I am allowed to celebrate the good things while I pad the landing for losses.

I am not bitter.

The taste is much more sweet, but sometimes it can be spicy and hard to consume.

I am not floating.

I am falling all the time.

Wishing I could grab on to anything.

Hands out.

Reaching.