Friday, April 07, 2006

Fibromyalgia


Hands like clay, she slumps

some mornings like a bird
left too long asleep in the rain:
her pain comes and goes.

When the dull pattern
of storms lightens
she flies through the hours,
flexes her fingers
above the bright land
but even a sparrow knows
how much the rain
can narrow a day’s flight.

Often, before patience
takes hold, she flaps
her arms wildly
yet never lifts up.

This is when
she flutters quietly,
hands strapped
beneath twisted sheets,
wings fettered
beneath the weight
of too much clay.

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim

10 comments:

Aurora said...

Beautifully done, both words and image!

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Thanks, Aurora. :-)

Eric said...

ditto aurora.

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Eric, thanks. :)

Paula said...

It's very light and sweet. Lovely poem andimage.

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Paula, thanks! It's very kind of you to stop by. I appreciate it.

Pat Paulk said...

Some do get more clay than their share. Just doesn't seem fair. Exceptional poem Christine!

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Pat, there is way too much clay in the world, I agree. Thanks for reading!

Janet said...

excellent.

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Janet, thanks. :-)