cold healing falls as manna
scattered in bits and pieces
across the blackened earth
it covers the scarring filth
a blanket of white novacaine
to dull the trash strewn pain
of a given garden gone wrong
so for a while everything dies
and life ends on winter’s cross
but it’s only through these frozen days
that sun and renewed life can come
to warm our waylaid ways
in the meantime run falling to the ground
fill the world with winged laughing angels
see –
they stare to the sky to witness the coming sun…
Interesting that while I am writing you a post about how one must lose one’s life in order to gain salvation from his ‘crap,’ you should be putting together some ‘crap in stanzas’ about snow covering the filth (aka crap) like novocaine but moving through to the idea that it is also manna and ‘cold healing.’
it’s only through these frozen days
that sun and renewed life can come
to warm our waylaid ways
amen
I ran across an interesting poem from Rudyard Kipling called ‘The Return’ (see google) where he talks about how he ‘grew a bloomin’ soul’ but also where he includes the pain that he feels after his soul has grown and he has to rub shoulders with the provincial:
But now, discharged, I fall away
To do with little things again….
Gawd, ‘oo knows all I cannot say,
Look after me in Thamesfontein!
Incidentally, I ran across this while reading “Heretics” by GK Chesterton as part of my Book Club preparation. Chesterton writes Kipling off as one who thinks that by living large, we become more human. Chesterton argues that it is only by becoming patriotic or living small that we can have a place from which to judge the big picture. Perhaps both are true: The provincial need to listen to Kipling and those who live large must learn to endure “Thamesfontein.”