This is not the time
to speak of softness, of how the burdensome
sheds its skins, the unbearable
burns to embers, floats
its spark, wisdom dance
of feathered light
against the keening dark.
This isn’t when it happens,
despite a flock of alms, the monsoon
prayers, kindness with its lavender
breath to brush across these bones.
Here, there is a blessing
that wants to meet you, guide you, raise
your raw untouchable hymn.
Here, where branches snap
and silence roars, reshuffling
minutes, hours, days,
a new, backwoods terrain.
There will be time enough
to learn the bulwarks of the heart,
how it lets in what it will, keeps
a nest of courage, store of strength
to lift you from your knees.
But for now there is a raven sky,
a loneliness, long and deep,
without knowing its secret
gift or providence,
the way love guts and dislocates us
and walks us still
into its widening arms.