Window Seat
Flying I watched the land shift change Wondering What story is it revealing? The lines in the canyon walls showing layers The history
Were the mountains formed, those crevasses, peaks and valleys, from storms and wind or was it some force from within pushing them taller, more defined? Looking down and seeing old weathered skin wrinkled with age The rivers raging through carving canyons pushing deeper and deeper tearing away the walls grain by grain Or those slow meandering streams gently watering the banks feeding Were they gathering the water creating this force or simply allowing?
What about those fertile plains green with life abundant Or the gentle rolling hills softer, more gentle less judgement The clouds covering protecting from the heat of the sun
Or are they a mask hiding their true form only allowing glimpses of the land below? I am not wanting to judge (like I have been judged) I don’t want to be hard unforgiving
I choose to be a space where I can hold my true self up (no more masks of pretending or people pleasing) strong but not brittle To allow her (little me) to just be like allowing the winds to come, but still remain firm in my roots of who I am Maybe the clouds the storms reveal the core A true self peeling away the layers blowing the dust to show me