Not Yet

These arms are folded.
I will not sway.
Tell me something new.
Make me believe it’s true.

I breathe in this new decade
with a knowing forgetfulness.
I release the unnecessary—
letting the smoke signals of
past hurt, and a sense of loss,
swirl up and away,
like the impatient kite string
of that other life.
So desperate to cling to it.
So desperate to keep it alive—
despite the burn marks.

What is to come
can only manifest,
if I hold the pale blue silk
between my fingers, gently.
It can only come into being,
if I loosen my grip—
welcome the unknowable.

Tell me what comes next,
insists my busy brain.
Tell me. Make this all less abstract.

Not now. Not yet.
Not yet, I say.