Growing up, I believed in a Star Trek future. That humanity would one day overcome their flaws and build a kinder world. But now that glimmering reality feels frayed as a thread that has almost snapped from our grasp forever as my confused roses bloom merrily in November.
Why do I write anything, anymore? I wonder. Maybe in the end the one we most want to tell a lovely story is our self. I don't think I have ever shared this poem before. I wrote it many years ago.
BUT SAY IN A WORD
A lovely lunacy thrives
between belief and breath,
yielding hope before
heart meets horizon,
searching out sacred spaces
behind the moon’s mirror,
dropping silent screaming
wishes to burn alive
in the dark beautiful
YET,
seeding stars for—
Today?
Such verdant follies,
I know!
Now,
"Might I have a bit of Earth?”
*Title refers to Luke 7:7
*Last line from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.
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