Today, I only want the world
from the window, the
indifference of sunlight, I
am a bundle of raw nerves,
a shaking breath, weighed
down not by my griefs,
but my hope, a fresh-cut
flower of stubborn root,
wincing and reeling deep
beneath my sternum.
Already, I can feel it
trying to flower, my
weary frame twisted in
blankets on the couch, writing
love letters to people who
won’t leave me to tend my
own wounds, my hands reach
to make a soft landing,
sowing hope, forming
chosen family through broken heart.
There is God in the brown-bag
bagels we split for lunch, God
in the soothing familiarity of
favorite stories, God in an
orange tabby dropping a rose
at my side, purring, and
the False God, held
before me, shudders at
hopes like these, quakes in the
face of real power.
Grief pulls us to the ground, and
hope’s frayed edges know these
to be the seasons to burrow,
to strengthen, to build, to
nurture, shedding counterfeit
community for something sturdier,
to fight, to resist, to keep going.
michael king 