If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will soar like a bird,
touching the snow covered mountain tops.

I will run downhill

paws deep in the mud,
grass
and moss

like a wolf,
chased by the wind, embraced by
moving space,
scents, a whiff

on a hunt

not for food but
for play,
for life,
for joy.

If I am really honest, in my heart of hearts I
will sing to the dawn, dance
in the shadows of morning
and eve.

I will not
succumb to this mediocre
numbness of
sitting
not to be sitting but
to be seated
where someone put you.

If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts there is
no resistance,
no pull,
no push,
no tug,
no moving,
without purpose.

Like a reed in the wind,
its movement its purpose.


If I am really honest,
in my heart of hearts I will
throw out all the blankets,
the cushions,
the pillows and
their safety-nets.

In there, in my heart of hearts
is she,
her,
it,
them,
this,
whatever opens,
whatever closes

holding a candle,
enjoying the flickering of the
light,
the wind,
the rain,
the snow,
the sea,
the cold,
the sun,
the wintery, wintery skies.

If I am really honest, in my heart
of hearts

that mountaintop
is my home,
those woods my
backyard, my pantry
that river, my blood.

I sit there,
having chosen
to sit there
myself.

I live there.

Having chosen to live there
myself.

I breathe there,
having chosen to be there,
myself

In my heart of hearts.



Cecilia Götherström, April 23rd 2022