In Light and Dark, Out of the Garden, and On The Path
By Jane Tawel, October 10, 2023
And waking up to birds in the Garden,
heard not seen.
My mouth, dry as fallen leaves,
thoughts crumbling into dust not swept away, but hoarded
A heart as dry as leaves from an ancient but desiccated Book,
My chest hurts,
like a trapped bird in a cage,
throbbing like a song trapped in a tunnel,
too faint to hear, yet pounding in my ears.
I struggle out of night’s tight bonds,
and the prison of sweaty anxiety-tangled sheets.
Unsolved puzzles of otherness
causing night-fears to cling to my morning,
and morning is already imprisoned
thoughts of yesterday, flabby and gel-like,
clinging to today like suckers on a beached rowboat.
My oars went floating out
on the Tide toward Tomorrow.
If only I could reach through the pain
with outstretched arms, not strong,
but lengthening in supplication,
away from the unformed center of myself.
Oh, My God, where is the salve
of Your nothingness,
the salve of forgiveness and delight?
Salvation is a funny thing,
a flimsy hope,
a solid rock.
The salve of my salvation stings,
and pain heals more than blissful wishes do.
The scabs cover over the relief of treasured addictions,