Propelled

When I was a girl, I would see that glint
that something,
and I would be propelled into
that very simple thing.

He must be mine.

Two initials embraced within the red outline of a crayon heart
an arrow drawn through its center.


When I was just a little older, I would feel that               something.
That wordless
unexplainable something
and be propelled into combustable need.

Orchestrated sitting next to him in a bar
the beat of some earthy heart thump pulsing through
legs touching under sweaty drinks

electric

to find ourselves in a messy knot
candle lit
messy pile of discarded socks and sweatshirts.



When I was a young woman, I would notice

that

person.

Tall and strong, responsible and handsome
makes people laugh at parties and everyone wants to be around him.
I would be propelled
into planning for him to be my Camelot.
Imagination drawings of white picket fences
carrying me over the threshold
longing for me while I stir something on the stove
mowing the lawn and inside at afternoon's exit
his sexy day worn tshirt, my prince.

When I was a woman seasoned some, I would sense that secret smile
as I glanced at someone and would be propelled to wonder
if maybe it was he that
would
could
should
save me from the everyday
work
monotony
mundane
washing clothes cooking meals never catching up falling into bed too tired to make love.


I am a woman.
no longer a girl
no longer on any hunt for
someone
something
it
him.

enticed by my own mind and spirit
surrendered to complexity and layers of grey and nothing really living inside the box that has been
drawn for us.

I still notice.

I notice smart, and sexy, intelligent and creative, tender and strong.  I notice love and security and joy and comfort. I notice loyal and artistic and surrendered and inspired and kind.

I notice.

Thing is, I no longer feel propelled
to anything in particular.

I feel my heart unzip and allow my life to unfold.
I bend to integrity, and honesty, and all of the corners of life that I might have never looked into.
I rejoice in the love that I have and for every love that sneaks into my heart.

Every love is a new color.

A friend.
A muse.
An inspiration.
A memory.
A texture.

Perhaps I am
indeed
propelled,

but
to nothing
in

particular.