The Barnacles Grow

The barnacles grow on the shimmering rock. The rock is me—
shimmering golden me. The sun. The color of warmth, joy, happiness.

Still the barnacles grow, threatening to cover my sheen—but is it there beneath-- just like the diamonds that gleam in the darkness.

My truth stands firm and will not recede no matter what covers it.

The rocky path—tilting stones—no smooth way for me.
Still I proceed. Still I grow. Still I reach for the sun.

Green—the color of hope and new life—peppers my path.
Smooth stones, sharp ones, flat and tilting.
The mud and sand threaten to pull me under, but still I persevere.

Hope is all around.
Truth lies deep inside. Glimmering with each turn of the sun.

The barnacles grow. They are beautiful in their own right--enhancing the beauty like scars and wrinkles.
My body is weary. My dreams speak of darkness and light.
My essence. My ego. Embracing each.
They are connected like the barnacles to the stone.

Hope lies all around. Seeing things in black and white.
Good and bad. Truth and lie. They cannot be separated.
One cannot survive without knowledge of the other.

Slipping into the mud. I can freak out, panic, worry that I must stay there.
Or I can rejoice in the moment, find the humor and laugh with glee.
“Here we go again.” The silly ego. The beautiful essence.

The battle of my dreams and waking hours.
Black and white. Good and evil.
Still the barnacles grow on the shimmering rock.

photo by lucy 10.25.07