'A conversation between two languages'

NaPoWriMo day 11: Prompt - 'A conversation between two languages'

On days like these, I begin to speak to the world. 

I do most of the talking, really; it only sits and listens.

That infuriates me. I have come for answers. 

But sadly it does not speak my tongue, of course. It speaks in

Light and darkness, in sound and silence, in stillness and movement.

I speak in complaints, in tears, in rage, in poetry, in pages. I speak

Too much and the world, too little. But we try.

On days like these, I look up and I am fortunate enough to see

The sunshine holding the leaves apart 

Just to fall, with a beautiful, dying light 

On my face. I wonder why. I wonder why

It chooses me to rest on - however briefly. 

It is a horrible tendency, an old habit I can never shake off - 

Wondering what makes me 

(Me - awkward-limbed, sharp-tongued me)

Worthy 

Of love, of goodness, of beauty -

Of the sun and the world. 

So on days like these, I ask of the breeze and the trees

If I will ever be good enough. 

They just continue to be. I ask the same

Of the rocks and the streets. They go on

As if they did not hear me. 

Then I go to the sea. I remember

The last time I watched the sun putting itself to bed,

The wind combing back the waves

Like a mother with her school going daughter’s oily black hair.

I remember how I gasped there, over and over.

I remember how awestruck I was by that simple act,

How grateful to be a fly on the wall, a front-seat spectator

To the world greeting itself, loving itself in various ways. 

Often, the world and I -

We don’t need a common language to have a conversation. 

Presently, the waves ignore me once again. 

They continue rising only to fall, ebbing and flowing only to break

Upon the rocks. I do the only thing left to do - 

I wait for night to fall. Then I ask the moon, the stars.

They go on turning, spinning, bravely watching

Their own reflections in the water, head held high

Even in the mirror. I admire their courage.

But I give up. The night wears down, 

Its frayed edges coming away, overworn. 

The red, orange, crimson, gold threads of morning

Shyly peaking through the ancient fabric -

And the day begins

All over again. 

Suddenly, the world’s wordless advice 

Begins to piece itself together. So I know, at last

That it is never about being good enough. 

It is only about being,

About continuing to be. 

And when someone holds up a mirror to you -

About never shying away from yourself.

About accepting the sun’s kindness 

When it makes the effort to sift through the leaves

In search of you, and only you - 

Good ol’ imperfect you. 

It is about gasping for the waves and the sunset 

No matter how many times you have seen it before. 

It is about believing you are here for a reason,

If that is only to love every goddamned beautiful thing

Even if you do not know how, even

If you do not understand it, even

If you do not speak its language. 

It is about hanging yourself up, naked, raw,

To the terrible dark night 

With the knowledge that you are worthy of a new dawn,

With the knowledge that 

The world is a broken home

With a broken tongue -

You may not speak its language, but 

You best believe

It was made for you, and you were made for it.