This Is How I Cry

This is how I cry
for suffering I cannot touch,
so deep and not my own.

I go to Mother,
in honor of cycles I cannot understand,
and place pulse to earth and thanks to sky.

This is how I cry
when I sink into the past
from fretting lost in future undetermined.

I go to pen and page,
and swirl in speculation
until symbol saves me from my worrymind.

This is how I cry
when I can't sit still from restless rhythm
and words nor action ease discord.

I go to keys and strings,
fingertip tapping trapped emotion
until it flows forth in melodic tears released.

This is how I cry
when my body's tension deludes a wall of disconnect
I cannot see beyond.

I go to the wet-divine of color medicine,
and brush swift with soft grateful sensation
until the body calm of my own present peace remembers.

This is how I cry
sometimes