Maybe

For the third Sunday in a row a storm system is whipping through Ireland. We have had rain, sometimes very heavy rain indeed, every day since St. Brigid’s day. This is not to say that there have been pauses, but the intervals of a ray of sunshine or break in showers have been brief indeed.  Each week of February I have arrived on Sunday with a handful of poems to choose to share in the Sunday Weekly Poem blog spot.  Certainly, this is weather to hunker down, to dry out from the forays outdoors that soak. It is knitting weather, sitting with a book or writing weather, weather for making stew, baking, editting, book dreaming, re-writing weather. These long watery spells seem too dreamlike; at times it feels as if you walk between worlds.

We live in County Cavan, which sometimes puffs itself as having a lake for every day of the year. We also have turloughs, those winter lakes that appear in such rainy seasons, and then disappear come summertime.  We were unavoidably out and about in the weather this week and, as if to prove the liminal quality of this landscape, we passed a pub with the name The Stray Sod. A stray sod is fairy enchanted land. If you step on it you enter that alternate, or parallel, dimension.  You enter the multiverse where the laws of physics ruling our own universe do not apply. Such is the mesmeric quality of long lasting rainy seasons that also bring howling, razor sharp, winds.  One does not need to be over imaginative…

But I do not bring you a poem of stray sods or fey encounters. Sorry if this digression has been building you up for that kind of theme. No, this is more of an exposition of how weather works on the imagination and effects creative output. The creative process is one where you walk between worlds, even though you may not encounter any little people from the Other Crowd.



Maybe
 
Maybe.
If I become very still.
If I do not move.
If I just sit
with this
and feel the weight
of it.
 
Maybe,
if I come to sit…
If the this of it…
If it settles, gentles…
Then I
can know the depth
of it.
 
Maybe
if, once I have become…
If I can let go…
If I refuse to do…
I’ll be,
and embrace all
of me.
 
Maybe
if I become one…
If I hold this…
If I can resist,
Then I’ll
be able to embrace
all you.
 
Copyright © Bee Smith 2020. All rights reserved.

Featured image Photo by Matt Seymour on Unsplash

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