two sparrows’ worth.

do you remember

that dream?

.

the one that you held so

. tenderly

in your hands.

.

for a long while

you looked at it every day.

. breathing life into it

as often as you could.

.

until,

it got too hard

. to hope

for more.

.

and so,

after a while

you folded it up

. neatly.

like something no longer needed.

.

. but that’s not true.

is it?

.

i know.

.

it might be a bit dusty now.

. forgotten things often are.

.

and

. fuzzy

and

. frayed

around the edges.

.

that book you were going to write.

. remember?

.

that trip,

to see how the light

caresses the lavender fields of

. provence.

.

the marriage,

that has

slowly

stopped

breathing.

.

that house,

with a garden

big enough for children to build dreams in.

.

the

baby,

that you hear

when it’s still, at night.

. not yet there.

perhaps the time was never

. right.

or so you told

your broken heart

with the red moon

of

each

new month.

.

until,

it was safer to put it away.

.

it’s ok.

.

i know that, too.

.

but,

let me tell you

. dust,

is no match for courage.

.

and that’s all you need, really.

. two sparrows’ worth

of wild courage.

.

and

if standing in front

of

that

locked door,

feels hopeless?

. i’ve heard it said that

even if you’re down to your last coin.

.

. especially,

if you are down

to

your

very last coin.

.

. the last

of what you have to give,

often opens heaven’s door.

.

but you have to try.

. there’s no giving up.

.

so, go on, up you get!

.

listen.

do you hear that?

the rain is falling

. softly.

and you,

have some dusting to do.

.

—two sparrows’ worth.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

Photograph by Ricardo Esquivel.

unravel.

and then

there was the time

.

. a lifetime,

really.

.

if i am honest.

.

and

honesty

opens the door,

does it not?

.

the time

where

i gave pieces of myself

away.

.

. my

. flesh and bone

heart of stone.

.

allowed

my body

and

my soul

to be carried away

by

thieves

who faded into the dark,

.

because i was not enough

for

me.

.

because the voice

inside

my bones,

. one half of my dna,

found

me

wanting,

.

until i believed the lie.

.

and all i have ever wanted

was to be

enough.

.

such a hungry word.

.

. enough.

.

and i have scraped

portions

of my heart

onto the plates of others.

.

. by feeding them,

i have tried to fill my hunger.

.

a feeble attempt at peace.

.

but i am not

enough

to fill the bellies

of other starving seekers.

.

this, i know.

.

and i am

still trying

to trust

that

everything that i am

is all that you have ever wanted.

.

. enough.

. such a full word.

.

that i can call off the search

for love

and

hope

and

(self) respect

and

all the other things

that

i have searched for

in the thorns

and

the arms

and

the words

and

the eyes

of another.

.

there are roots to destroy

and

flowers to sow

and

new doors to walk through.

.

this,

is a fierce

undoing of myself.

.

an

unravelling

and

unlayering

of who i am,

until

i find the beginning

. of me.

—unravel.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

.

Photograph by Nita.

on letting go of what is gone.

the silver birch

and

the oak,

called me into the woods

today.

.

.

i carried with me

all the things

that i have ever lost

.

. and never let go of.

.

.

and the weight of it all

was counted

in fear.

.

.

and

i sat beneath

the bare arms of the birch, reaching up.

.

.

. always up,

despite her season

of nakedness

and loss.

.

.

and we sang a lament

together.

. an ancient song

of letting go.

.

.

and it was hard.

.

.

loss,

can scrape the joy

right

out

of your bones.

.

.

and that,

which i never wanted to give up,

.

.

brought life,

. in the end,

like

. dead leaves

on the woodland floor.

.

.

and the silver birch

and

the oak,

sent their roots down,

.

.

deep

. deep,

down

into

the earth,

.

.

and asked for more.

—on letting go of what is gone.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

.

Photograph by Skitterphoto.com