Saturday, February 5, 2011

Metaphor Turning in my Head

This week, I've thought a lot about the ways we close people out and the ways we desperately want to let people in.
The result:

If my whole self were a patch of woods, there would be a well, hidden deep inside them.
My whole self couldn’t be a garden—a garden is too pretty, too fragrant, too obvious.
No, I would have to be the patch of woods.
With its invisible spider webs to trip you up
and its snaking roots to make you stumble
and its eerie silence to conceal my secrets.

But that’s not the point.
No, the point is the well.

It hides my most vulnerable parts deep, deep down in the earth.
Though I could whisper in the wind that you should take a look,
I wouldn’t because I need you to prove you’re worth the whisper first.
See, if you don’t even stop to have a look at the well,
I already know.
If you stop to look but you get angry because there isn’t a pail close by,
I already know.
But if you stop to look with your brow quirked like a challenge,
I might take a chance.
And if you toss a coin to see how far it goes down,
I would know that you’re not afraid of a little investment.
If you go in search of a pail and actually come back to see what you can find,
I’d know that you’re worth the risk of letting you pull up what is hidden deep down in the dark.
Yes, I would know that you might be safe.

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