Rise
It comes unsought -- only unsought.
It comes uninvited -- only uninvited --
and by preference at the core of sorrow,
when sorrow without relief
slumps into the mind like thick,
obvious mud: the sick child,
the fallen marriage, the failing
god who hides the fragments of his face
in debris, weeks when you learn
sorrow is the only possibility.
It comes like this. One evening
you trudge along, broken,
a street chosen because choice
doesn’t matter, watching your numb
shoes, and for no reason at all
the late-spring light lifts itself
up from the late-spring lawns,
and the two sullen teens,
glaring as you pass, shyly
take each others’ hands,
and the fading sun
has just enough day left
to burn the stained glass
of a stone church
free of its gray blur,
so that gold and blue flash
and yearn, and the sky above
trembles now, ready -- ready
to fly open at just the right whisper.
.
