Trampoline

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

I am the dot that ends all my written worries,
doubts and insecurities, in the palm of my diary,
many a time trapped between mottoes and ironies
like a burrow of ants in a field of peonies,
on a rainy day.

I am always right. I am always left.
Navigating between uncertainty of the unknown,
and certainty of my faith and opinions
tripping over a compass [of my life]
that doesn’t point
quite exact.

Like a feisty child, clinging at the tip
of a long-limbed leaf of a skirt of their mother,
I am tiny; a tiny drop of dew
insignificantly rebellious,
defying gravity
before merging with the endless
vastness of a pond.

I am no more than a statue,
or another ornament at an antique shop;
intricately fashioned, yet always,
pre-owned. Never mind I am not superstitious

I’m still hanging good-luck charms
at the doorstep of my dreams,
in hopes of becoming something,
you so wish to lionize.

merdivinity

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