Blessing for the Brokenhearted by Jan Richardson

Let us agree

for now

that we will not say

the breaking

makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now

it can be enough

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this-

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart’s sole remedy

for breaking

is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

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I am vacant

and

the wind

blows through

a

winter tree

stripped bare.

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this grief

an anvil

hard, heavy,

sharp.

the weight

this sorrow,

a stone

in my heart.

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Leaves

I see you

ablaze,

fired with sun,

with dying.

I hear you

wind blown,

the sound like

tide

pulling at pebbles on the shore.

I smell you

crisp yet damp,

returning, once again

to the earth

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I dream drowning and

wake

telling myself it’s over,

think of

something else-

light, laughter

but

closing my eyes

the darkness floods in

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