The grid has shaped us broken —
We find our angled edges only fit
with others who are similarly maimed.
We cry out in our pain and our frustration
and find our cries just shape more of the same

We try to think of starting over,
Try to see a way
to pattern something new,
But all our edges dig into the injured soil,
compact it more, erode it, stir up dust

There is a river,
There is another way,
There still are headlands that are wild.
We need to find those headlands
in our minds —
That’s where we start,
That’s where we stay

It’s not so much a work of starting over
(These trees are here, they’ve grown for years)
So much as moving now
along our truer channels
thus reinforcing all the good that’s here

But now it’s time to cry —
Cry tears, cry out —
anything to be less stuck, less dry.
With all my voice that’s left, this shout
for help. I can’t do this alone.
. . . And so to wait, until direction comes.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 11, 2014