Felicia asks, "What if the first noble truth is that we are loved?" and shares a poem she has written:
In the beginning...Light.
The same that lost their leaves,
Have borne
The brunt of wind and snow and cold.
Dirt,
Hardened and smeared
With mud in puddled ice,
Un-sunned,
Unable now to make things grow.
Would gales and sandy grit and murky skies,
Have been the first to act upon this scene?
How could we have measured loss
Save that we knew
Of sunnied supple boughs and garden rows?
Wherein does the Promise lie?
ReplyDeleteDoes Hope live despite the frozen filthy rot that rends the soul from bottom to top?
Only as the Sun warms this desparate scape and seasonal rains its ugliness wash, does Life eek forth, painfully extricating its head from the murk.
But when dwelling in this manured state, the Life of Light from blurried eyes is hard to see and even harsh.
Nonetheless, Hope does live, even in seeded state; and in appropriate season, will renew, even the most wretched.