It’s collectively been a tough week, months, nearly a year. This Typewriter Rodeo poem is a reminder to focus, for a moment, on our own humanity.
Lean into it, the breeze suggests.
Dig deeper, says the dirt.
Sometimes the hurt you feel
means you’re standing in the wrong place.
This hurt wasn’t meant for people.
It wasn’t meant to land anywhere.
It’s the cosmic ache of the atmosphere drifting through,
the give-and-take, push-pull flow.
You know when it passes — no claiming necessary.
The lift of the air.
Hear the held note like the quiet humming A
an orchestra tunes to — that’s for you.