I want to paint my prose on the page,
A snapshot of majesty, of grandeur,
A memorial of that moment for eternity,
Words to capture peace, and still, all is well
In that sunrise over the mountains, or
That storm, distant, over the canyon.
I want to paint that prose on the page.
But while that moment is healing, it is not mine,
Not the arc of my life nor my story to tell.
Though I witness it, long for it,
I do not possess it, not for a moment.
My story, the one I have to tell,
Is far more bland than majestic,
More granular than grand,
Comprised of moments of no consequence until
Looking back on their sum, you see their currents,
Ebbs and flows, tiny decision after tiny decision,
Etched shallow in the sand,
This story, the one I have to tell.