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,

to suffer,

to hold

without knowing its secret

gift or providence,

the way love guts and dislocates us

and walks us still

into its widening arms.