Moon Rock River

I'm not one to write about the inner stomach workings of a girl. The squishy, rumbling cliff, watch it break and scream
all the way down. Some things feel right and some things feel wrong and sometimes I find myself trying to make all the
wrong things right. Rocks do not bend easy. Bleeding frusteration. Then, rarely, there is something, a glimmering ordinary something that exists in the world without anything man-made. I think, i found that. But then, so often, the water tricks, man-made mirrors. I'm trying to look at my rock rationally. I'm trying to be happy about happyness, no matter the expiration date.
I don't absolutely mind my stomach hurting, like this. I prefer it to indifference, which is how my stomach felt
to all the rocks and the food and the water in the world all fall. I thought my stomach was wrong. I tried to fix the intestine,
coddling it, shaking it, whispering, feel, feel, feel! But it would not fall. It remained it's own rock. Chiseled into its own mountian.
I've never gone mountain climbing, this is a true thing, this is a true statement, never. The thought of falling myself, my whole self terrfifies like an inescapable navy midnight. But, the winter frost seemed to have defrosted. I write best with these weights inside me.
And, we push on, we use our arms, our brazos and our theighs and our piernas, we flex our
elbows and listen to nostalgic sounds, a hummingbird outside the window when we were seven. How our eyes would follow its flight, its pink journey.And so we fly, in the air, but one eye to the ground. I find one rock a year. I make one birthday wish a moon. But, maybe the story of icarus wrong and all those buddist friends were right--it is not about the destination, but the journey. Rocking myself, now, I look to the sky and think this is so.