and still, you bloom
wild courage
in a thousand
little ways,
in spite of your winter.
and isn’t that
a miracle?
— on living brave.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Tag: Inner Healing
(there is) life after death.
the wild cherry tree
that stands
sentinel
below my kitchen window, had
until today,
lost all her leaves,
but two.
and all morning long
i kept watch
over her labour
as i rinsed the remains of
give-us-our-daily-bread
from plates, and
somewhere
between brewing tea
and folding laundry,
she let go of the last signs
of life,
and i stood with my head
bowed
in that solemn moment, but
she swayed in the wind
and said,
‘there’s no need for sadness,
i have been expecting this loss
and
it is good.’
as two leaves became
one
with all the others, and
gold
lay like love,
all over the
very ordinary
lawn.
— (there is) life after death.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
when joy, was a dead bird within my chest.
i woke up
this morning
with joy, a
dead
bird
within my chest.
she just lay there.
curled up,
a weight of
dead
feathers;
throat silent.
and i wanted to
mourn her,
rail angrily against the
poisonous
seeds
that had stolen her.
cancer.
depression.
death.
fear.
anger.
loneliness.
foreignness.
distance.
and all the
dark things
that go
bump
in the night.
but my words
were
gone.
stolen.
so i sat with her,
cradled
within my hands
gently whispering
all that i had left,
i am sorry.
i am sorry.
and slowly,
the liquid morning
light
fell
just so
onto her face,
and elgar’s
enigma
covered her body
with a gentle
blanket of cello,
and the
cool
autumn breeze
from the open window
ruffled
the fine down
on her breast,
and she remembered.
all the good things,
all the beautiful things,
all the hopeful things,
as the warm tea from
faraway places
warmed her throat
until
her voice
returned.
and she shook
her feathers
and inclined
her head
as she ate
hope
amongst the thorns.
—when joy, was a dead bird within my chest.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
letting go of last season’s hope.
leaves,
delicately
floating
prayer flags
of relentless hope,
an offering.
trees,
gracefully
losing
themselves
to the light,
becoming less.
earth,
quietly
exhaling
golden breath
preparing,
for rest.
—letting go of last season’s hope.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
hope.
this
defiant joy
of the blackbird,
sheltering
from the storm.
and still,
she sings.
—hope.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
friend.
sometimes,
the watery
winter
sun
calls my name,
gently,
from behind the clouds,
caressing
my face
with his tendrils of
hope.
but i turn my back.
not now, i say,
can’t you see
that i am hiding
from the light.
but he rubs solace
into my fears
anyway.
— friend.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
in the season of (another’s) discouragement.
you cannot force
spring,
upon a
wintering heart, and
you can
throw blossoms
at the cherry tree,
untamed
and
naked
in her grief, but
she will not
bloom
wild
white
hope,
until her barrenness
is over
and a new season
swells
within her.
— in the season of (another’s) discouragement.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
