So this is healing
Messy, scattered like grains of honey-hued pollen on blind wind, as chaotic as the dysfunction that demands it.
Moments of unburdening are stolen, between filter-changing and brewing
But the spilled spores are an allergen
Inconvenient and out of season.
The damage is done, a fait accomplí.
When one blossom opens in Spring and another in Fall, repentance comes
too much, too little, too late,
Soiled by the looming promise of death.
But redemption knows no season
Open wounds, left by pride to fester and weep, at last sprout forgiveness.
By the awkward grace of entanglement, it thrusts through stubborn clay
Roots twisting and writhing
Growing deeper
Tapping soil for retroactive tears
For what was
Stolen
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