Seeing Beauty

There is an aloneness that is not loneliness, and not despair, and western medicine hasn’t got a clue.  It is something like a profound closeness with your own being, an intimacy with the quiet passing of things, friendship with the broken and the transient with and without.  when you quietly grieve over yeterday’s dreams of tomorrows that never came, you hold today so close in your arms.  You are the mother of today.”  -Jeff Foster

There is not one day
There is not one way in which
I am not altered.
There is a quiet breaking
of the heart, a loss of any
hardness in peering into oneself.
It evaporates.
It is a secret place, something held
closely only with the
presence of grief.
Somewhere only I can visit.
The secret garden behind a wall; I knew as a child.
There is an intense knowledge in its contents.
Memories and experience, that belong only to me.
I can awake.
I know grief.
I can move through it.
I can navigate the thick hanging ivy and the nettles
secluded behind the wall.
When I describe the agony
and receive nothing more than a pithy acknowledgment.
It is me.  It is my song.
It is a transcending human struggle,
To love and grieve so unapologetically.
I watch.
A flower blooms every spring.