The Lens
Some days I forget
we can stand in the same spot
and still live in two different versions of the day.
We take the same street.
Your eyes catch the cracks.
Mine catch the green nerve
pushing up through them.
My brain runs a filter.
It tags the world fast.
What I see
is what’s inside me
that day.
When I’m carrying a mean little knot,
the street hands it back to me
in the driver who cuts me off,
in the neighbor’s hello clipped clean,
in the low grey sky sitting on my shoulders
until my joints start to scream.
Other days I’m softer.
The street hands that back too
in the stranger holding the door like it’s nothing,
in the wind moving through the trees, unbothered,
and the same grey sky feels like permission
to move slower.
The lens isn’t fixed.
It blurs with my losses,
hope brings it into focus,
what I can’t forgive tightens the frame.
Some days I can turn the dial,
some days the dial turns me.
If I catch it,
I might widen the frame
a little,
let more in,
catch the small stuff I missed
I might widen the frame
a little,
let more in,
catch the small stuff I missed
while I was focusing on proving a point,
hands on the lens as if I can get the angle right
the day will behave,
hold still
hands on the lens as if I can get the angle right
the day will behave,
hold still
long enough for me to keep the frame wide
for a while.
for a while.
(2022, © Julia Delaney)
Be Alive 🌱
Love ❤️, Julia
Rhyme & Reason
![[section label="Regret, You Silent Sculptor"] [row style="small" v_align="equal" h_align="center"] [col span="7" span__sm="12" span__md="6" animate="blurIn"] Grooves Regret works in the dark. Chisel and mallet, carving valleys in my chest, grooves in my mind, hollows I didn't know were there until I fall into them. It shapes with "what if," with "if only," with the door I didn't walk through, the call that went to voicemail, the words that sat in my throat and stayed there. It keeps reworking my memories, pressing new grooves over old, until I can't tell anymore which version I lived and which one it made. The groove gets deeper. The chisel returns to the same line. I feel it wearing through and I hold still for it like I'm helping. But my hands are moving too. On different clay. Something regret hasn't touched yet. Two sculptors. Same room. One facing what was. One facing what's here. Neither puts down their tools. [gap height="10px"] [ux_text font_size="0.75" text_align="left"] (2018, © Julia Delaney) [/ux_text] [/col] [col span="5" span__sm="12" span__md="6"] [ux_image id="27223" image_hover="glow" depth="1" animate="blurIn"] [/col] [/row] [/section] The past is already carved. What matters is who's holding the chisel now... Be Alive 🌱 Love ❤️, Julia [section bg="24103" divider_top="waves-opacity" divider_top_flip="0" divider_top_to_front="0" divider="waves-opacity" divider_flip="0"] [ux_text text_align="center"] more from this hour: [/ux_text] [gap] [blog_posts style="default" type="row" col_spacing="xsmall" columns="3" columns__md="1" depth_hover="5" animate="blurIn" ids="27202,8949,27229" show_date="false" excerpt="false" comments="false" image_height="56.25%" image_hover="glow" image_hover_alt="zoom"] [/section] [block id= "poetry"] [block id="disclaimer"]](https://eadn-wc05-15915244.nxedge.io/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/poetry-about-life-711x400.jpg)
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