Love. Love lost. Love found.
The times in between.
The darkness. Never quite gone,
never quite complete. The struggle.
The losing of self. The recapturing,
the restoration and the new bits
tacked on to make a rococo whole,
God lost. God found. His patience
Fifteen years of this. The writing.
the painting. No one telling more
than a tiny story, but together
and epic poem, vast and sprawling,
far more than anyone will read.
A few more taps on the keys.
A few more brush strokes on the canvas,
another step. Today’s step and you are never certain
where it fits in the story, content, at last, to trust
that it does.
About this poem.
Since I started writing again fifteen years ago, my poetry has followed my journey. Some of it sad, bitter, depressed and lost. other parts of restorative, hopeful, victorious, and loved. One moment at at time, building a sprawling story, still unfolding, one poem at a time.
Now and again I go back (mostly, I do not). And I am amazed at the journey. Amazed and grateful. Even for the hard parts that have made me more compassionate, tender and real.