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I Tried to Fit a Triangle into a Square…

And the triangle broke free and the points made little holes in the square. And when I touched the points with my fingers, my fingers bled.

And that, dear reader is how I learned that trying to fit into a square isn’t good if you’ve got pointy edges.

It’s also how I’ve tried to figure out what’s happening in my personal life this year.

I’ve tried out new things. I’ve tried to be less focused on outcomes and more focused on the moment.

I’ve tried to listen less, because listening is always where I get into trouble.

I’ve tried to go with feelings instead of facts because I always go with facts and I thought that was holding me back.

And I’ve still had to buy more bandages than one might imagine. And my heart still feels raw. And I still keep tissues handy just in case I’m wearing my glasses and can’t blame the tears on my contacts.

And my heart is still raw. Right, I already said that.

And yet, with all of that information, I still prefer to be a triangle outside of a box, attempting to grow and spread out and point left and right and up. Sometimes all at the same times and sometimes only in one direction so I can find a bit of focus.

And that is how, today, I came upon a poem by Pablo Neruda that isn’t about triangles, even though that is its title. Truly, it isn’t about birds. It’s about change and the future and it’s about where we go when we see the future for what it is, or can be. And even those most often filled with optimism have to understand that sometimes, life is about changing from gray to color, but you still have to have a bit of the gray. And that’s not a bad thing – it’s just a thing that is.

Triangles

Three triangles of birds crossed over the enormous ocean which extended in winter like a green beast.

Everything just lay there, the silence, the unfolding gray, the heavy light of space, some land now and then.

Over everything there was passing aflight And another flight of dark birds, winter bodies trembling triangles

whose wings, frantically flapping, hardly can carry the gray cold, the desolate days from one place to another along the coast of Chile.

I am here while from one sky to another the trembling of the migratory birds leaves me sunk inside myself, inside my own matter

like an everlasting well dug by an immovable spiral.

Now they have disappeared. Black feathers of the sea iron birds from steep slopes and rock piles now at noon I am in front of emptiness.

It’s a winter space stretched out and the sea has put over its blue face a bitter mask.

 

 

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Dee Dee Mozeleski

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