[Image description: Two bare trees in a shopping center paring lot, a single branch from each reaching out to the other, touching in the space between.]

Heart full of poetry
and problems,
trying to bend without breaking
down completely.

Waiting without knowing
what will be its worth.

Will time tell
by giving birth to wholeness?
Or will shame,
fight it out forever?

Can poetry solve problems?
Will healing ever come?

Not sure it’s possible
to co-create
with nothing but this
severed cord
and glimmer of a different way.

Wondering if hidden in the waiting
for what some of us
experience as God
and some as fate
and some as no-god, nothing,
is the mystery where that
alchemy can happen.

What if the ends of healing
depend entirely on the means

and those means are
seeing the other’s pain?

What if healing is an active waiting?
Help and rest.

Perhaps what we do with waiting
is the poem of the hour.

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