He reads poetry. Reading poetry is, for him, not unlike getting a long drink of cold water after running several miles on a hot, dusty summer day. His whole body craves it, needs it, not only good on the lips, in the mouth, but flowing down and out through every inner inch of him, restoring, quieting and cleansing nerves, bones, muscles, organs.

Aaahh.

And soul, spirit, mind…everything plumps up again, eases back into the spaces, fitting.

He's reading poetry even now, so he's healing. Watch him. Can you tell? Can you see him draw nourishment from the words, gaining strength from life so finely tuned, so carefully distilled?

He doesn't always understand why this happens. Poems are like windows, perhaps, through which he glimpses the truly authentic, so that, upon these moments of true being, honesty and tenderness, new things can be built–stable things, trustworthy things, constant things. (So little in his world smells of stability, trust, constancy.)

So something is built that keeps the day in check, just this side of balance, and he survives. He may forget the view from the window, but some core part of him holds onto the stillness.

Until the next morning. Until the next poem.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.