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The Stone and the Hands
I am the hands that press against stone,
The force that asks the earth to yield.
Each weight I lift is a whisper of victory,
Leading me toward the hollowed space I seek.
The stone shifts, reluctant yet willing,
Freed from the place it once clung.
My hands find their grip, and the weight of it
It becomes mine to bear.
The stone rises in my grasp, a triumph in its own right,
Yet the earth still waits, unfinished, calling for another day.
Author’s Notes
This poetry comes from the moments I struggle with both physically and emotionally. Somehow, I was able to struggle through the fight with the stone, winning it over the edge of the hole I dug.
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Now, I struggle with the whole in my heart where a firey romance once lived. It’s harder to struggle with this than with the stone because with the stone, I could easily see what was in my way on my path to success. Now….
Now, I question all parts of myself, wondering which aspect is the stone I must struggle with. At this time, no victory is in sight. No light is calling me. Everything is gray as if my world has lost its color, and I am wandering through this strange twilight, knowing things will be okay but without knowing how, when, where, or how.
Next Steps
Figuring out what is next for me takes looking back while looking forward. Writing will help me continue to evolve and live my metamorphosis.
~N
