Like awakening after a long illness
to find your health stole back in while you slept,
your sorrow, in its time, will retreat,
and the knowledge you carried all along
will re-emerge, whole and cleansed.
One day you will not thrash in the too-bright light,
looking for a corner in which to close your eyes.
One morning the weight will not be there
beneath your eyelids, the first thing you wake to;
it will not settle on your tongue like a lump of salt.
And because you have stayed this long
unrelenting, in the unrelenting world,
you know that time, though imperfect,
is diligent, and wrestles down grief,
and that all things are born small
and grow large –
except grief, which is born large
and grows small.
Marcia Falk is a poet, liturgist, painter, and translator who has written several books of poetry and prayer www.marciafalk.com
