Now listen to your broken heart.
Sink into the wound and bathe
in the balm of midnight.
Don't follow a star.
Your destination is
the gray stuff in cocoons,
neither wing nor worm.
Let your root find sap in black loam
oozing the light of distant suns.
What are a thousand golden petals
or
the fragrance of balsam and myrrh
compared to the yearning
of the shadow for its cause?
When you are truly silent
you'll hear birthless seeds
singing in the dark,
bursting thin sepulchers of ice,
already whispering,
"April, April..."
Faith is to fall
through the long Winter night
and witness your falling,
which means to rest
in the groundless
until you are healed
by your loss.
Painting by Lori Sweet
No comments:
Post a Comment