this is not a poem

I have been absent

for days and weeks.

I have been cleaning
and sewing

and trying to quiet the anger
that I can't control
in light of this new America.

They say there will be a day
when federal monies
will be revoked from arts programs.

I suggest we start looking for ways
to protect the voices
the ones that are real and true
*and not alternative

Oh, what blossoms from dark earth have I found?
Tis but a flower, growing in the sun.
Refracting light casts rainbows on the ground
and I ask what contains more beauty? None.
        
A stem of glass, as fragile as a heart,
from which its petals of pale crystal grow.
Seem they to smile, when tears of joy do start
within my eyes. True bliss, at last, I know.
        
Yet when, with longing, I extend my hand
the shadows loom and terror grips my soul.
Though peaceful my intent, no malice planned,
I know my touch must surely take its toll.
        
So here I stand, gazing down at the earth,
aware myself judged of little worth.

I laid broken pieces of myself, in front of him,
Deciding to dance into the unknown, go out on a limb,
Expecting a scowl, or vile laughter,
I braced myself, for the foreboding disaster

Yet angelically he stood, with patience to share,
With my heart in his hands, he was truly aware,
Deciding to heal me, he reached for my soul,
Healing the pain, I had hidden from all