The Scars of Morning

Yes, I am bloodied.
That is what happens when you stumble,
when the darkness closes in and you refuse
to stay there, when you insist
on walking in the dark,

when you are unwilling to wait
for the animals that roam in the night,
when you refuse to stand in the cold
and wait for the slow death of winter.
You walk

and you stumble and the rocks cut your skin
and love and life bleed out.
You fall. You walk into the brush
that tears at your skin.
Ghosts haunt you, mock you,

remind you of other night journeys
and your fear, the night becoming
something to fear, a creature into itself.
You hear them, the ghosts,
both real and imagined

and you know it is better to stumble,
better to walk through the night than lie down
and wait for it to claim you, better
to walk towards the distant light,
torn and scarred

than to wait, simply wait, for death,
to be found in the morning,
your bones bleached and dry,
unrecognizable, a dried shell,
all love drained from your body,

beautiful flotsam on the quarry floor.
So you walk, you stumble and
you stumble again. and the face
that greets the dawn may be torn
and scarred. but

it will greet the dawn, no longer
unafraid of the dark.

About this poem

I read back in my journal today, at all that has happened in the past month in my life, starting with my mother’s death, and then following with several other things in my life and in the life of people I love and hold close. And I understand why I feel so battered. It has been too much. Far too much.

But at the same time it has been a journey. A journey of discovery. A journey of faith. And a journey of love. I am far weaker, and far stronger, than I was when the month began.

The picture was taken yesterday at the top of the quarry across from my house. It is not a dawn. It is a sunset. But it illustrated the poem well. We’ll just pretend it’s a dawn.

Tom