• author
    • Stacey Robinson

      Blogger
    • November 17, 2015 in Bloggers

    These are the Things that are Measured

    I am terrified that I will not measure up.

    That my best will not be Best Enough,

    Or even close at all.

    I am terrified that I will fail

    Life. Or my son.

    I mean, its one thing to fail me.

    I’ve had a lot of practise at that.

    I think of all the almosts,

    all the near misses,

    all from the comfort

    of such distance,

    Measured in time

    and passing moments.

    Or maybe seen through

    several layers of gauze,

    so that the edges blur,

    and the pain of all that

    misplaced potential

    softens, so that it is

    At last,

    At best,

    Bearable.

    But only from a distance

     

    Still.

     

    Still, I am terrified

    that the scales that

    rise and fall in a graceful arc,

    a pendulum sweep of

    Enough to Not

    will find me wanting.

    Though the real secret,

    Of all the hidden secrets,

    Swaddled so carefully

    by the gauzy batting

    Of time and passing moments,

    The real secret is

       I do not fear at all.

     

    I know.

     

    There is an infinite and

    Measureless chasm

    Of measuring up.



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