Morning
and the frail light
thrashes upon the holly.

There's a thread between
imitation death and
more living,
and everything is
unscripted, lathering and
defying gravity

and did I actually hear some
prodigal geese scrambling
the sky, all sugar, calm
and kindness?

Like me they
are fugitives of sameness,
their cries clear announcements
of change, reminders that
without change there
is no living . . .

What if the gathering dark
clouds out there rip open
and gush with all our
nightmares? What if
the worst happens and we
survive and are better for it
and find it didn't matter
anyway because we landed
safely back in the Light
where we began, and there
really is a fathomless,
embracing world just beyond
this facade,

and even now there is
a God in our hands,
softer than we ever imagined,
and an afterlife that shows up early
every time we believe,
and every life is a cherished
shard of an ancient scream,
ever-becoming and
ever-us? What if

All is well . . .


Patricia Joan Jones