Short Stories and Creative Nonfiction Essays

Sunday, September 13, 2020

STOLEN


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 accomplĂ­.

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 soil

Roots twisting and writhing

Growing deeper

Tapping soil for retroactive tears

For what was

Stolen

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