Grieving America



Grieving America

Grief meets me with the dawn.

I open the door to the morning,

see that the sky is obscured with clouds.

My melancholy pushes me in directions I would rather not go,

finding false comfort in the sadness.

Sun now glinting off my coffee cup, the ghost of hope fulfilled,

I pick up my kaleidoscope and point it to the light.

The clouds move slowly, opening a sky window.

The poet said, “to be or not to be.”

“To do or not to do.” That is my question.

Two birds call to each other. I can’t see them. They sing into their faith,

hope inserting itself.

The echo of too many stilled voices breathes across my mind.

I recollect that the sun is always shining,

somewhere

*

It is only because I have heard birdsong that I can feel its absence.

It is only because I have seen the iridescence of God’s children that I can mourn their vulnerability.

It is only because I am acquainted with the glory of truth that I can feel its loss.

*

I realize I am called to love the seed without the flower,

to love the song without the singer,

to love the promise without the proof,

to love the star without the light,

to have the will without the completion.

Because I know what is possible, I have promised

to dance without the music,

to paint without the canvas,

to plant without the crops,

to trust the idea without the revelation,

And to believe the message without the Messenger.

That is my job.

I place my kaleidoscope back on the shelf,

finish my coffee,

and go to work.

© Linda Beatrice Brown

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