Here I lie, to write again.
It is so easy, my friends,
to write of agony and of the end.
But it is much harder to soldier on,
to begin again.

I rest easy in the breezes of wind.
I don't ask why, as often
and I try not to pretend.
That there is a rhyme to each question of when,
but face honestly a blow that has been softened
by the presence of Spirit
and absence of skin.