V. H. King's Ink

down in Texas, where spring is rushing up 
fast, my friend spent her morning outside; 
being in the house kept making her cry—
enraged by hate’s way of reaching out, 
snatching up what's precious and stripping 
it from our grasp if we fully let it. easy to lash 
back, retaliate in ways that feel good in 
the moment but ultimately curdle what 
we're trying to save. it made me think 

somewhere in swamp-land that’s mostly bog 
and brown goo, a turtle surfaces after winter’s
gray. he’s risen to rest among golden dust 
motes; crisp fresh air at dawn; cozy-sultry 
sunset glow; night-purple skies scattered across 
with stars. and you wouldn't think you could see 
all that through the trees, as a turtle on a log, 
beady little black eyes widened, ringed with gold—

but he can, and so can we, because space and time 
are the ingredients for everything. we are the same
as gravity: solid and still just a theory. expanding 
and retracting, retracing history in triumph and retreat. 
so let us keep rediscovering our stretched skin 
and scratched shells; may we become what we need 
in each turn of sun and season. when looking back, 

we’ll hope to say: my, what a life we’ve made
while we were here! because we were; we are; 
we learn to pray with what we've got like a turtle 
on a long: sifting through mud and loam, sobbing 
into moss, sighing with the lonely groan of another 
today, whispering hope and courage into our souls.

candle of the day: Mystic Heart