A fracture in the quiet of the bone,
A sudden weight that shifts the earth below.
The spirit sits inside the dark alone,
And wonders why the healing is so slow.
Each morning brings the same familiar ache,
The heavy gravity of pulling through.
It takes a day to mend a single break,
It takes a year to make the old look new.
The clock becomes a cruel and steady hand,
That counts the minutes dripping into space.
We map the desert of this hollow land,
And learn to walk at such a painful pace.
But fabric knits beneath the hidden skin,
And roots grow deep beneath the frozen snow.
The quiet work of light can now begin,
However long the mending takes to go.
