Second Wind
Paciego coming into his own pace
my second wind is quiet,
I stayed caught looking
back through old hoops,
then I felt it from the edge
of the forest tunnel,
that buzzing in my
right pocket was Mom’s
worry for her firstborn
walking into the thick of it
for some solace,
I thought it took for it
to be forgotten;
I still remember my dreams,
prophecies, I had to
lose warm guidance,
and dance by myself,
to their warnings in
the cold breeze,
only their dust gets
blown from my shelf,
how do I show them
I found something?
the ‘woods’ are ‘lost’
because they withhold
knowledge in every
unburied, broken body;
that is not me anymore,
bands around my ear snapped,
I heard the downpour,
a whist crater where loud was,
I thrusted across ravaging
waters, when I rusted,
I lost trust in myself; I’ve yet
tip a clear bottle to reclamation,
it’s hard enough to stomach patience,
I know my fate needed changing,
held long to the ripped pages
of ancient manuscripts;
my face against warm jets,
I’m learning to let go at my own pace.
This is the eighth poem, “SECOND WIND,” from my thirteenth poetry collection, PACIEGO SOLADO’S PACE.
— Chicano poet from Southern California
