“It is a joy to be hidden, and disaster not to be found.”
-Donald Winnicott
It is a joy to be hidden,
to crouch with just one’s tips and toes cherry red, visible as salvia
against the camouflage of weeds and patio couch cushions and the rotting fence boards
between us. It’s sheer delight to place one bright desire
at the center of daily routine, circle back
when rules of civility say we should be sleeping.
Even the nighttime’s bowl of sacred fruit is less forbidden. We consume
lights on, no one around to whet the afternoon grindstone,
or stop-go at five oh one o’clock.
It is a joy to choose nap or bath or jigsaw puzzle, to converse
with oneself among the newly composted garden dirt. I could cache myself
here for weeks with my yarns and my introverted tendencies,
if you could come too. And you and him and all those people scattered
dots on maps, single stars extracted from their constellations.
And together, holding hands so much less than six feet apart,
we’d avert disaster. We’d string each other back together
with reminiscences of all that time we spent so joyously hiding,
back when all we wanted was to be left well enough alone.
Please come find me; I’m done hiding. I am desperate now to be found.