But I still wonder, wonder, question and ponder. How can such grace arrive so fittingly, like water at crest, snugging the sky's womb. Such purity wasn't meant for ignominious Sapiens like we. The grackles, carrying SO MUCH HATE, enough to kill a school or any of you. Such cherubic grace was not our destiny, or pure utterances meant to fall from our ugly, clumsy jowls.
But we're here. And it does.
Such wondrous whisperings were meant for the others, the monarch winging it homeward again; for the doe and yearling, waiting for echos of the dwindling wildfire's screams to drift south. Like a back road in winter, when the sheen is neither ice nor water, and you can't tell whether it's a wake or a birth.
It's the stuff that failed redwoods and built arks, a beauty of the highest accord, that somehow fell in our wicked paws. What vengeful god would bestow such an atrocity upon his children, would give such crude implements to manage such purity. How is one to exchange gifts when the rain blinds like stars?
You would think only a right hook, from a tortured soul, would be able to carry and deliver such weight, or that only planks of cedar would carry such a strong scent. But a week has now passed, and the wonder remains. All that subsides is the fear; all anxious nightmares abandoned and dismissed, for every arising cold sweat is just the exit of terror, the past trying to rekindle what we've moved beyond.
I hope she isn't in situ, that she's ready to strap her boots and step off the porch. My palms are likely rough, and my soul weary, but there's a bluebird in my heart that want's out and the stars are too bright to hide in the shadows.
Let me take you along and throw your experience and wisdom to westerly winds. Because I can't stop without running, and this is no place to hide.
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