Groping in the dark I open those inner eyes and find myself sat in showers of palest pink, the cherry blossom fulsome falling. The petals sing a swirling song of subtle hue, and I, so used to sitting, to only watching, must rise and dance with them, must search out the love that is calling me.
So I run, enabled here, and head towards the light, which may send me snow blind, the brightness is so soft and sheer. And I stand and answer you, and wonder where you are to be found, stretching my eager neck, and I ask why I have been processed out, the fragrance of buds crushed by my god-sped heels enveloping my waiting. Yet more waiting, Lord? And then I hear a bright whisper, that the way out is to love, to always love, to be love, including towards the sickly, beyond weary bed-huddled form to which I now return.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com