Flourish

It was not the springtime of a life,
It was not yet the height of swelter,
The time blossoms broken in strife,
And a burgeoning helter skelter,
When angels light and dark were rife,
And the storms gathered without shelter,
We touched.

In the sacrament of married love,
A universe of dermis and follicle,
Germinates a gift ever to belove,
Compassions in a widening circle,
Travail, the time oft dreamed of,
In blood cries, the holiest shackles,
We birthed.

Tissues and limbs, unfold in a dance,
Even as the summer of life blusters,
And every celebrated moment we glance,
In the wounds are darkened and blistered,
As foals in freedom play and prance,
To years resigned, the future we inter,
We mourned.

And ere autumn with dwindling light,
Call our bodies to a season of wilt,
Even as cubs face their season of sprite,
Will the dreams remain buried in silt?
Or yet may we hope and reset our sight,
As creatures untouched by the guilt.
Heal,
Will we?

And as the garden grows in season,
The flower blossoms when it wills,
And the heart has its own reason,
Though the dark infects with chills,
Yet we breathe: Kyrie Eleison
And await the ending of all ills.
To see,
To live,
To flourish.