Summer Antiquing

Other peoples' things
sit, collecting dust,
on a crowded shelf,
waiting to stir up murky memories
which swirl around aimlessly
like soft, grey mud
at the bottom of the bay
when you step
oh so carefully
on a summer's evening.

Let me soar

to the heights.

Let me sever the strings

that hold me to the earth--

that are held so tightly
by those on the ground.

Let go

of the lines

that hold me

to the shore

and let me float,

my sails filled

with the breath

of the Spirit.