a poem, written on the occasion of my 35th birthday
The flowers you got me are dying.
Green blooms giving way to drooping orbs,
a tabletop reminder that comforts and disturbs
for I am dying too.
but only the way every living thing is dying.
Here's something marvelous:
every dying thing is living still.
Living through the flood waters.
Living in the face of fear.
Breathing and speaking,
learning and yearning and surprised by the ache -
more confident and more broken hearted with each passing year.
In hope, there is rising;
fighting back darkness without compromising
or becoming the very thing I'm despising.
I want to be bold but not self-righteous,
speaking truth without using words for violence,
knowing when to act and when to be quiet,
choosing to be last,
to name what I covet and die to it.
Most days hope is brutal,
catches in my throat
yet somehow beautiful.
sweet terrible hope is Light for today and Resurrection come what may.
Still I never thought that life would feel this way.
Though dying, I do not droop.
I stand taller than I ever have,
new freckles on my face from all that sunshine.
I'm learning to love them.