We carry the remains. We carry them within, fragrance of what once was, in the pages of life. Roses here aren’t red; they are obsidian like a barrage of false hopes, the shoreline perpetually erased, nothing planned and nothing expected.
Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end. Only gentle, faint glimmer of light. A glimpse of an earlier existence lurks like a hawk on the fringe, and were it not for the seashells, we would have lost our way. And in the seas there flowed answers, our hearts warehouse splattered and smeared with shame, sorrow, with degradation; and why not, did we heed to the call of nature when maples were perspiring, when glaciers were rumbling and sobbing began in stem and seed.
Perhaps it’s not too late for us to act as catalyst for change.
Photo credits: pexels-maria-orlova, fair use
Merril hosts at dVerse and asks us to write inspired by
a line from “A Map to the Next World,” by Joy Harjo.
Come join us! 💝
Posted for Prosery: Finding Your Way @dVerse Poets Pub