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Misty by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Misty
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

And sometimes when I move
at the edge of a greatness—
a lake or a sea or a mountainside—

my insignificance thrills me
and the largest of my sadnesses
dwindles smaller than the space

between grains of sand
and in that moment,
knowing my place,

comes a love so enormous
I can love anyone, anyone,
even myself.

MARGINALIA

1.
It is a hard task to love myself. That much I know. Every day is a struggle to want to be alive. I often tell my friends who lament at the challenges of being an adult, that upon waking up in the morning, I have to come to terms with being human first, of being here, before I can even contemplate about being an adult.

2.
The task of getting out of bed, of choosing not to die today—I suppose that requires love. An enormous love. Of life? Of the world? Of my tattered self? I don’t have the answers.

3.
Sometimes when I glance outside the window and see the sun like a giant yolk sitting atop the clouds I can almost understand why it is worth it. When I think of something funny and I start laughing until I’m crying, when I’ve eaten a good bowl of soup and I feel the warmth inside my body, when the rain falls gently and the fog moves in and the thunder feels more a murmur than a rumble—I think, yes, this will do. And when you call me beautiful and it gives me the sweetest ache, I remember that I do, you know. Love myself, I mean. Because I want to be here. Because I want all this, still.

endnotes

This poem appeared in hush by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, published by Middle Creek Publishing, 2020. Shared here with profound gratitude.

 

Read more works by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer • Find books by this poet • Or view my library

 

Explore poems in pursuit of: awethe holyhealing • Or browse the index

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on this day

Comments (2)

  • It is always hard for me to decide what I love most — the new poem, or your observations about how it fits into your life.

    reply

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