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?
Faith is to fall
through the long Winter night
and witness the falling,
until you come to rest
in the groundless,
healed by your loss.
When you are truly still
you'll hear birthless seeds
singing in the shadow,
bursting sepulchers of ice,
already whispering,
"April, April..."
Winter is not an absence.
Spring is not a destination.
Lose your way between
the seasons and wake up
wherever you are.
Painting by Lori Sweet
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