Blessing the Dirge Lodged in the Craw

When the hymn of grief gives way

to a song of a nascent self,

ears that eagerly awaited the bell

may close at the din of mere silence.

~

When the solemn chant is stuck

and to breathe and to swallow are vain,

eyes that sought the horizon for a finish

may tear at the sight of more paths.

~

When broken pieces muster the muscle

to find a golden version of repair,

bellies that hungered for cure

may churn at the taste of mere healing.

~

When the waking is painful

compared to limbs fast asleep,

skin that lay safely dormant and distant

may prickle now exposed and aware.

~

When the fractures are simply

the facts of history,

the smell of the fear of foolery

may resemble the danger of smoke in a wood.

~

And yet.

~

A dirge is still music.

A full gullet is still fed.

~

And so blessings on the wounded windpipe –

harbinger of happy, if sometimes hapless, change.

Blessings on all that is woven back

into a novel and woken whole.

And blessings on the trepidation

with which your body now masters its newest air.

Blessings.