I want to write of the light

but I do not know
whether words can illuminate
the way it hangs
upon branches and bird wings
and broken things
returning beings to beauty.

Can words spin substance
from sunshine and decay?

Can words cajole
celebration from night-weary
birds?

Can words warm surfaces
of stones and sorrows?

Can words reveal richness
in mundane
and battered
things?

I do not know.

But if we would write
a tomorrow
which is wider than wounds
we have worn,
we might wield words
like benedictions
and remember
blessings
within brokenness,
beginnings
within endings,
and beauty
within all things.

Posted by kind permission of Bernadette Miller


Poetry