She
strains to see the light,
holds close what hazy image she possesses,
and races against the
night.
Finally,
slowing,
she holds her cramping side, holds back the
threatening, wrenching tears, and now
on holy ground,
removes her shoes, feels sod
beneath
her feet.
She stoops
to stroke damp growth,
and heart still pounding,
she is
gaining calm.
She is free here,
soul
showered,
outlining circles in the dirt, riddles of infinity coming,
symbols to mark stark contrast of where she's been and where she's come.
She draws carefully, gently, coding, almost, a message to herself- a reminder, and her hands
are messy
but meant
to be.
She illustrates desire, directs it skyward,
seeks
strength
for her departure.
She'll know when
she is ready
but while she's here,
she takes
the time
to
wallow in the silence,
skirt the
dark that
lurks.
Here she can let go,
and here she can ask,
her
senses balanced
and
every voice transposed,
and so
she whispers his name,
lays it down,
first softly, like an infant soothed,
then
with
incentive striking, volume rising, repetition
strums
instrument of petition.
She is
scattering the lies.
There is war here in this place of peace,
concrete suffering and an
encroaching condemnation,
but she will stay for now,
ride out
the fear.
When weakened, strength arises and wisdom's granted.
Then, with defense of truth,
she will return.
The Sunday Whirl
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