In the darkness,
into the quiet of my house
the world follows me.
With its noise and its sullen silence,
its rage and desperate loneliness,
with tenderness and fury.
So beautiful and lost.
And I, naïve, flustered and breathless
can only offer words, threadbare bandages
for wounds I do not know how to bind.
But words can be made flesh,
can roost in thoughts in
tired minds and hurting hearts,
take root in the dirt
of lived out days and stormy nights,
of aching cheeks and puffy eyes.
So pitch your words into the
struggle and the darkness,
wield them with kindness.
Tenderly refuse to retreat
into cynicism and despair:
your heart only breaks because it beats,
and your lungs still hold breath
so your words can kiss life
into hearts fighting to break
the icy water’s surface
to the clear air of hope,
and the light of an impossible new day.
There is no more to say.
Or plenty, but not for now,
and these are only words.
Don Lowe 