I’ve lain on both
when I did not care the difference
numb, dispirited, saddle leather calloused
as though
I had journeyed many miles
with no smiling faces to greet
only to collapse
on a post-apocalyptic beach
staring at a sun
draped in the miasma
of hades.


Where does spring rest
during winter’s breath-stealing
occupation, where
are the seeds of hope stored?
I like to think they are
hunkered in prayerful hearts of
grandmothers, warmed by
midnight novenas, plucked and kept
close to blazing-hearth breasts
of doting souls


The twitch of needful things
the irony of silence
broken by a soft, “Hello”
is a page turning, eyes
cleansed of fog, rain blessing
fallowed, fissured ground.
And life stirs.


The bane of heartbreak
is compassion
the enemy of darkness
is a candle lit.

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