Sunday, April 6, 2014

sense

sometimes there are momentary gifts that
from the outside
don't make any sense

I'm in a field
It's lovely and clear, with tall grass
perhaps there are daisies
way too many dandelions for any HOA
and I am bleeding
from cuts
deep and long
like I have been attacked
by a bear

and a voice from
somewhere secret
whispers to me
"you are amazing"

and it's like a shadow
took my hand
for a moment
and one slash heals

the silent sound slips inside my ears
from every flower petal
insisting "you are beautiful"

and cuts that are covered
begin to scab and
heal

There is still
no one
there.

The field rustles in gentle breezes
Peepers sing from an unseen pond
the pain
is still
real
but healing holds me in hand
as the wind whispers

Perhaps
making sense
doesn't matter as much
as making connection
sharing hope
healing wounds

Perhaps making sense
is over rated.