Let us fold the scarves of affliction
into small squares and put them in the drawers.
Let the morning part its curtains
to find winter cleared for spring.
Let the sorrow that knelt all these years
at the foot of your bed tire of its vigil
and long for the white sweep of coast,
the naked cliffs, the noise of ravenous
seagulls. Let it walk through the village’s
winding lanes with no more fixed destination.
Let the bright bewilderment of flowers stop it
in its tracks, and the smell of yeast teetering
on shelves of sugar. Let the horse in the field
turn its head, and fish in the stream scatter
their mottled, careless gold. Let the future
write of its hopeful past. Let it coax the worm
that burrowed blindly in your bones for years,
to find a different ocean from which to call to god.
In response to Via Negativa: Taking pains.