The Place I Run To

Where I Go When I Freeze

The other morning,
this.

Sitting outside,
coffee in hand.

A boy, maybe five,
walks past.

He is play,
entranced,
free, whole.

His open face looks up,
catches my eye.

Freezes.

He narrows.
Runs back to his mother.

Caught.

One becomes two.
Safety.

Mind takes a snapshot.
Remember this.

—

Writing this now,
the boy returns.

Connection,
in a flash.

I do it too.

Myself,
open, then freezing, returning.

Not to another person,
but to my head.

To narrowness.

As if the world,
and my body in it,
are too much.

Too large, too wild, too open.

I run back.

Safety,
this narrowed center.

The world.
And me, looking out.

—

Sometimes
there is venturing.

Moments,
unthought, here and there.

The warmth of water
running down the back.

The full taste
and texture
of food in the mouth.

Not listening to birds,
but becoming hearing itself.

—

Then
caught,
frozen,

I run back.

—

To my head.

The narrow place.

Not unseen,
just small enough
to stand apart again.

—

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