Last night the moon splashed
through a kingdom
and washed up here,

drowning

without touching
the lake,
drenched in the most
terrible splendor,

falling

into the excruciating
beauty of nothing
till the snarling darkness
found its way
to morning, and

I knew what hope was.

And then there was the
raucous stillness
hiding in the
first breeze,
a touch that played like
lute strings on
ten thousand willing
branches and
swarmed
like a young heart, and

I knew what peace was.

And there was sun-torn fog
shredding the grief
I wore like
a halo because the
mist was holier
than sorrow, and

I knew what joy might be.

If we are one
with the One
Who created worlds
we can say:

Here, take this hurt,
here,
turn it into light or petals
or rain or
whatever changes
everything . . .

Nothing will be the same—

no more skulking like
snakes under stones,

no more giving
our power away like
blood to sharks.

Last night a universe splashed
through a kingdom
and washed up here,
leaving new creations
in its wake and

I knew what we are:

We are that, and
so much more.


Patricia Joan Jones