{portion}

Memories seep out of the ground of us.  Rustic in nature; untamed by the kept portions we claim.  These moments lock press to our sides procured by nothing more than time & heart tending.

I would like to say that I keep my portions well.  That negligence of now and swarms of self don’t fester the goodness that comes from breathing together.  But I fall victim to both.  I wrap myself in all the wrong layers only to find I’m twisted and disgruntled with how stuck feels. With how uncomfortable fashions itself in me.

But praise for the days, for the long stretches of moments rather, that time believes there is more in me.  Yes, those are the moments that are lock pressed.  When stature seems nothing more than stillness and success that comes in the forms of “don’t forget this.”

Walks where heaven sprinkles down here on earth to remind of us of the power that we do not have.  That we do not need.  And of the vessels there beside us that are worth the bundling.

He splashed.  I snapped.  The quagmire underfoot danced with the icy air.  Sloshes ensued.

Snuggled with boys I will soon know as men.  I proclaim them in these moments outside of me.

Memories seeping.  Like large oaks, we make our rings.  Growing together as much as apart, I praise the days, these long stretches of moments, that time believes there is more in me.

{week 46: my 2 in 52}