Wary of ruts –
the lies I tell myself
sprouting roots,
impeding progress.

Yet, without roots
how am I defined –
does impermanence
not also leave a stain?

The ground shifts
beneath me
and I dance

inventing a rhythm
that defies ruts,
mocks impermanence
and eludes definition.

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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

3 thoughts on “Dancing

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