The pull of the day, of the years, of everyone’s needs leaves shadows and cavities from ebb’s never-ending taking, but the sun’s reflection warms me in oranges, and the glow stays. The light one way or another will illuminate, independent of ever reaching that haunted, hollowed space.
Not a beanstalk, but it might as well be, magic seeds sprouting the way to giant dreams, and in the center, a sunbeam passes through a hole in a leaf purposefully to reach me, or is it simply that light is at the center of all belief?
Insignificant the manmade pier seems, foolishly leading horizontally…
I could write of love for the rest of my days with your soul in mine, a combined light revealing new ways, and His grace lacing the glow – seamless, stitchless, healing to whole – but love and light is what I’ve written all along; perhaps that’s the path that led you home to my arms.
My heart was open. I think it always was, which makes it so susceptible to feeling too much the lack of love, the layers of loss. My heart was open when you came along.
Lucky, I was. But I know you were led. The same light as mine has found me again.
Some were built for height, some false with imitation bark, some ill-fated by others’ fires, some have witnessed the sparks.
The dark, the light, rotates and falls upon each equally. Some were meant to sky-reach. Some use the sun’s love to bloom in delicate and fleeting beauty.
At the feet of giant trees, with whom I have always felt most rooted, in white lace and ray’s kiss still fresh on my crown, I have never been so at peace with who I’ve found I’ve always been.