Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,
Trilogies etched with a holy amen;
Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,
Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.
I view you with scorn.
Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.
Do you not feel it in your bones,
this Frost creeping, cadaverous
mongrel, seeking your flesh?
No one who knows what
Saskatchewan winter can accomplish
would proffer innocent bud,
sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.
Or do you know exactly what you offer?
Scorn spars with Pity,
until a third enters the ring –
Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?
Death may just be the mother of
all necessary re-invention,
the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.
Tears trace my ruptures,
draining immature ideas,
congregating on your petals
where they christen you
She raises weary hands high,
knowing that if she aims for
heaven, she just might touch God.
Tendons stretch beyond breaking
point, in the places where pain
collides with grace; she feels buds
Tear and in the ripping, birth
laughs at the Fall, defies this
dead-weight. Thirsty soul seeks sun
and in the breaking place, blooms.
She let him see what others couldn’t,
and emptied drawers
and exposed her viscera.
She fully expected him to flinch,
toss her back
(a fish out of water,
the one who got away)
but he didn’t. Instead,
his tears met hers
and formed a river, a magnificent
fountain, rivulets which thickened
like blood. She revealed her nakedness
and he, finding her soul to
be more than oxygen,
found the pearl of great price
within her imperfection.
Life taught her well –
hide beneath pretty
packaging, paint sleeves
pink like brittle
fingernails to ward
off the curious
and offer a semblance
of heart without
to disguise the terror
of being known, the
risk of offering her
self and finding that
she is not enough.
Hope unfolds, a wrinkle in time,
boutonniere in a funeral pocket.
It whispers to the weary
when gale-force winds shout,
yet its stir conquers kingdoms
and uproots emperors,
one pale pink petal at a
time. Hope is one drop
of one wave of one ocean,
yet it carves out its allotment
of the shoreline with a steady
hand. It dares to grasp the moon,
sleep with stars, paint the
Sistine Chapel, bow at the throne
of heaven, bloom on a cursed earth.
Hope is the candle in the window
to call its sons home…