Identical stains on what
we have contained, we have worn
like burn marks that reveal
twin ordeals. We have been breaking
this bread, our flesh,
listening to heartbeats in the morning,
when the sun comes around –
around the corner,
to see us, the mutual mourners.
There’s enough here, enough near
to be here – living in discomfort,
as it’s enough to know
the number of tracks
were imprinted in the snow,
telling us what we need to grow
when springtime comes,
comes around the next corner,
finding us, winding us
on time in reminding us
that we cannot grieve forever.
We will – in willing our eyes
come to see, beyond what we see,
in the dark.
In the cold, we have been
connected. Under soil for those
who are dead,
we have been breaking bread,
seeking gratitude,
but the warmth never returned
from scarred palms.
From Heaven’s open gates,
there’s an overdue embrace
to go beyond the space
we’ve reentered,
to say was always enough
to relive yesterday.