It crept up to the surface when I was broken open.
But abated by light,
which had been taking refuge deep in my bones.
And a soul is no black hole
So the light lived on.
It shone brighter in the aftermath
of the quake that shook me.
Shake these sacred bones from their living grave.
It crept up when I sat in silence,
begging for the scattered pieces to come back
Before I knew
There is room for more.
It crept up to the surface when again I was held,
Again was adored,
And again the love ran out.
Again, those most comforting receptions,
It crept up to the surface on foreign streets,
And in the back seats of speeding cars,
Never moving fast enough to be without what is within.
Mountain peaks, river beds,
Monsoon rains, fresh snow blankets,
Couldn’t wash me clean.
It lives inside of me.
It crept up to the surface in deep woods,
In days spent in solitude, on new and full moon nights.
It creeps up now too, on home ground.
In all the familiar places,
Reflected off all the familiar faces.
Can words be my medicine?
Will I ever be enough?
And now, amidst the creeping, my mending will be
the most substantial alms.
I'll offer my breath.
And maybe it’s just the waning sun, this time of year,
That makes it feel
Kate Varsava is a Halifax, NS based lover of wit, whimsy, and word-play. Late-nights, mid-morning coffee, quiet meditations, and the elements of nature inspire her sentiments and observations.