Isn’t it lovely that we live in a world
where graveyards can become gardens?
How can one look around and say,
“Grace does not dwell in this place”?
There is something so comforting
in knowing that barbed wire and poison
yield to poppies and field-flowers—
that scars fade from angry red to serene silver:
a body’s kintsugi, by its very nature—
that fire-scarred landscapes where carelessness
burned thousands of acres in a few days
will return to green growth someday,
pines seeded by the flames.
Healing is not the exception, it is the law,
and all wounds soothe and close in their time.
There is only the matter of patience,
allowing grief to sweep through you like waves
until transfiguring grace finds a home in that pain.
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