How fine it would be to feel all the pain that needs feeling,
but feel it within a deep and merciful sleep.
How wondrous, while shock waves threaten,
to hear music that perfectly fits the shape of your body.
How exquisite to hear the lyric required to kick-
start every stalled moment of your broken life.
How precious to see the art that saves, forming within
all the bits of shattered glass that is your soul.
How right to recover that stolen piece of folk art—the weathered handsaw
with the prairie scene—that spoke the gentleness of your father.
How brilliant to step from your dark tunnel into that friendly blue house
with the picture of your child in a blue gown and running shoes.
How wild and free to receive the shelter and comfort of your old anorak,
even while some iron wind tries to tear it from your back.
How grand, and what luck, when sinking in some bog of doubt,
to clasp one non-judgemental hand.
How good it would be, in the drip, drip, drip of hope deferred,
to find the peace that can’t die, be stolen or lost.