After the gash the reaching, the weaving,
tendrils of flesh finding each other.
After the flash, the flames, grey ash—
the greening, small prelude to the immense.
Children, wounded, homing, stand
at thresholds and step through.
Root hairs stitch with patience, grasses
fur volcanoes' ribs, mosses home bare rock,
arctic birds find place in ice, species drift
and shift and shape. There will be life.
The very word that there be light
ripens the dark. Being seeks its fullness.
Battered souls still mend and seek to mend,
and even caved do it to save and to defend.
Whatever is broken, bent or incomplete,
an inner knowing whispers make it whole.
Even in the year your mouth
is full of ashes, bones of smoke,
something new will rise, already is.
Bind yourself to this, through flood and flame,
in you and every soul, this mending will, the heart
of what it is to be, moving, given, graced.
August 23, 2019