Blog | Lindsey Smallwood

New freckles

Lindsey SmallwoodComment

a poem, written on the occasion of my 35th birthday

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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. 

Dying, yes,
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.
Yes,
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.