after all these words
what really matters
contentment? happiness? Love.
Contentment, happiness, love: Like in feeling calmly filled-up, like after a busy day of watching the dog watch the chicks peck and chirpy-chirpy in their box.
What really matters? That I was true. That I am True. That I do not cover up one shred of my passion, or my desire to love you. That I always, in some way or another, get a little closer to accepting all the colors in the crayon box, that when I inhale their scent, I inhale their essence without separating them.
What really matters? Laughter, like when we discover a whole neighborhood and my dad, all safe in their drawers at Sunset Memorial.
And after all these words, I feel a little fragmented, a little sobered, to find that even these words have no ability to extend this experience of Now.
And the words still matter to me, like the leaves of the bean tightly packaged in the cotyledon waiting to sprout and climb the trellis that stretches above them.
After all these words what really matters are all of these words.