tonight: these dead things, they live

“…An artist is a nourisher and a creator who knows that during the act of creation there is collaboration. We do not create alone.”
-p44 Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle

Palms up we hold these stories past rather lightly
and when they fell to the ground the crush seemed insurmountable
sure death. sure ache. surely never ending.
The kernels fell hard and the cracked earth swallowed them
eager and hungry while the wholeness of the gone-ness consumed
ever, ever, ever tears raining down and softening these harsh lines.
And then with an air of anti-climatic but real resolve
a sprout becomes a root becomes a bud becomes
something wholly other. something longed for. something good,
if different, and yes, maybe better.
These stories held rather lightly in the aftermath
with one look back over shoulder
reveals a different story, a better one indeed.
The ever-repeating metaphor: from death, life because
all these dark hues always laid bare by the light,
a role never, never reversed, from this we cannot hide
and so we stand with open hands but utterly sure-footed,


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