there's so much silence before the fall
i've been living in it for years:
only writing when i feel agony,
but there's so much to be serene about
diving through life
knowing you're about to hit the ground--
an unromantic cataclysm,
not quite as idealistic
and beautiful
as a kaleidoscope,
but perhaps as sacred as a window
of dirty stained glass
falling out of her holding cell--
her stable pane and frame--
and into the old brick church
people sing songs of repent in each sunday.
this stained glass will shatter
as she hits the ground
in this empty amphitheater:
a show put on for god
to make god feel full,
and remind her that she is full
of an entity,
a being,
a consciousness,
a will to live,
a will to breathe,
a will to find something new,
something she can hold
and watch flower with happiness
they already possessed;
something that would like to watch
her flourish with happiness
she already possesses;
a predisposed will
to breed light from darkness.
once more,
this stained glass falls fruitfully from her home
her sacred place in the window.
where she was always needed,
where she took sunlight and turned it into god's word
for everyone to bask warmly within.
again,
she falls from where she was always needed
and hits the ground with a crash
amidst the silence--
blues and purples and golds and greens
all scatter against the deep red tile
underneath creaky church pews.
no one will be there to outrage,
to riot,
to hear what they might perceive as a crash,
a devastating descent,
wasted potential,
a cry for help.
in an instant
these shards of colored glass
are mismatched,
no longer beautiful
to anyone but the one glassblower in town
whose hands are calloused enough
that he no longer burns
as he holds his rod out
into the open fire of the oven
just to test the flickering extent of his willpower
and passion.
he could do this all day--
just so these shards of shattered glass
get the chance to become
something new.
the glassblower will bend over heat
just to be there, to see
what these swept up shards could become:
a magnificent vase for show,
a translucent orb for safekeeping,
a knife sharpened until it's deadly enough
to protect
or capable enough
to serve,
a coffee mug or simple cereal bowl
that fades into the background
and finally rests
knowing she is useful,
loved.
he will sit there and watch
and not worry
about the memories this glass holds,
the hardships she endured
in translating everyone's woes
to hopeful wills of god,
or the pain she felt
hitting the ground-
just as she meant to do, really-
for the sake of possibly
getting to begin again.
he will sit there and
smile at her,
laugh at her, and
bask in the unexpected company
she provides for him: a
good conversation, a
meaningful compliment, a
sealing kiss
at the end of the day
when she has cooled and
solidified,
and he realizes:
he is still proud of the man he has become
in her company--
while mending her in the fire--
and the man he has remained--
mending himself near the fire.
not because she makes him proud,
or being around her gives him pride,
but because
with her he remembers
there's purpose in love
far removed from obligation.
just loving,
at the end of the day,
reminds him of
stability
amidst change.
he will sit there,
and she will turn in the fire
slowly--and
at the end of it all,
she'll know there's relief in the cycle
in the aching freshness
and soothing instability
of beginning again.
the thistle 