Hands like clay, she slumps

some mornings like a bird
left too long asleep in the rain:
her pain comes and goes.

When the dull pattern
of storms lightens
she flies through the hours,
flexes her fingers
above the bright land
but even a sparrow knows
how much the rain
can narrow a day’s flight.

Often, before patience
takes hold, she flaps
her arms wildly
yet never lifts up.

This is when
she flutters quietly,
hands strapped
beneath twisted sheets,
wings fettered
beneath the weight
of too much clay.

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim

10 thoughts on “Fibromyalgia

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