I reach for words that float from
trees, from starstuff, from the heavens,
tack them lightly to the page in
imperfect order. Somehow they say
something I need to hear, often
something I thought I didn’t know.
I am looking for the whole of myself,
willing to hold the heaviest things
seemingly banished and buried, while
gazing at the repaired heart whose scars
gleam gold, beautiful in their healing,
remembering our perennial ability
to soar on gossamer wings through
the darkest nights, to rely on
an inexhaustible supply of words,
on images that bring the broken bits
together in transcendent ways,
if we let them.
Keep walking in the shadows.
Study and embrace what lies there,
our vessels stronger for the breaking,
for the restoration, the former shards
outlined with breath, with hints
of the luminous, even when it cannot
be seen—like clouds masking the sun.
When we fly over the canopy
of darkness, we find ourselves awash
in glorious light—radiant, unclouded,