We think that it is all on our own.
Each step we take,
another path to choose.
Each left or right, a second guess,
a trepidatious move.
Such that we feel the ground
for solidity,
test the air waves for scent of danger,
move as though under water.
Slow, that our weight is pressed
against the flow.
Feeling as though we have to keep
pain at the threshold.
Where would we be
if it all caved in?
The map we had drawn in our optimism
washed with the tide.
We think that it is all on our own.
Each step an impossible prediction,
that we wonder how we dance
when we don't know the steps,
when we are lifted from our feet.
But there is a weight
like the warmth of water,
flowing against our thighs,
warm at our waist.
Hands on our skin spinning us,
catching us,
leading us in a myriad of directions,
changing degrees.
This partner at our side
whom we misjudge,
the extent he choreographs our steps,
teaching us to follow.
Though following might
be flying in the air,
or falling from heights
to land without breath.
To then be drawn
around in the tight embrace of one
who has made the dance and
partners us.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
May 2021
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