Even when the night dances so dark on your mind
that your peace splinters tears,
when life feels over-budget and overdrawn
in the ache and stall and prickle
and in the fear that can sit so heavy on a belly
that you freeze clear through to your spine
…even then it is there, rumbling low,
In the fear that your mistakes may cost more
than you can ever help to pay,
that you may have loved much but not well,
may have caused more harm than healing,
more thicket than clearing,
more frustration than good,
that a stray word or exhausted miss
may have broken things so hard
Even there in what could quickly become despair,
a bud burns still inside to open,
to sizzle and surge and batter through rock
and shriek life into all that died.
In the stabbing glare of all you may have wasted
or wandered off from,
there’s an epilogue unwritten still
but swirling always fierce with hope
that won’t let go even when you must.
It rumbles new beginnings, new pages, new leaves and buds and seasons,
that what was lost may still be found,
that what was buried may yet live.
That in all of the loss and leaving,
in the dreams that died in the shell,
your heart is safe to lean in to what’s coming,
into the quiet thunder that’s humming
it is well.
“What is this breaking,
this hopeful re-making,
addressing dry bones,
dizzying me with blessings,
intercepting my grieving
and raising the dead all around me.”
– Enuma Okoro
Happy Springtime, dear you:)
I’ve been busy living like a farmer and I realize I say that every April or May; it’s as true as ever.
I’ll be back regular now – thanks for being your loving selves with my
dirty, achy, sunburned, tuckered out Springtime way.
You are a lovely garden and I plop down grateful in your gentle shade:)