I am in the absolute under in moving.  Under boxes.  Under thoughts.  Under feelings.  Under someone else’s treasure from which I call unwanted and unneeded, rusted, or depleted.   

Under but over the down and the ousted.  Over the hurdles, over the bindings that kept me rooted. Over the under’s. Over but not over YOU.

Under and over.  On average, the middle. I can do the math, but it’s more a riddle.  So, if you ask. I just might say it with a smile.  Words never convey the truth anyway.   Do you have a shovel?   A rake?  A spoon even? 

Are your hands empty as the concern that is given?  Your mind closed to paths that wander into deeps where I am planted?

How are you’s require tools.  It’s just safe to say, my answer is, middle.    Which is a far better than under. The under’s are as temporary as boxes in my way. Temporary as seasons or feelings that change. 

Place is under.  But there is over.   But I am feeling middle.   And middle is a step above where I was.   And if you didn’t know, if you are following, boxes are traps.  Step around them.

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