My gift
is not in fixing
but in stepping back
with paintbrush poised
or cordless drill
or flashlight
to say this is broken
and breathe
in the woundedness
and possibility
to find ways of lingering
but not overlong,
touched by what is here
and what may come to be
with a very fond farewell
to what might have been
and a smile
soft in welcome.
They have travelled
so far already,
battered bodies
fighting current
pushing upriver
when life calls them home
– some of them sooner than average,
jacks who take one for the team,
a dance with diversity.
No head or arms
to distance them
from thrust,
their only hope of rising
is full-bodied leap.
Obstacles crafted
to ease their journey,
each small barrier
unknowably tall,
each landing a pause
for more courage.
I can only assume
that salmon have no room
for despair,
no reservoir of doubt
or futile view;
their journey
full of ardour
propels them,
a bellyful of yearning
providing alignment.
Give me the wise blindness
of immersion,
a wild commitment
to my own arduous thrashing,
the freedom
to surrender into suffering
my own sweet homecoming.