They live in graceful rounds
of pleasant gray. A practiced union,
sewn on generations of twos
who managed in fragile tears
that ripped and healed,
swelled and dried
for the length of their lives.
How do they live with such wounds;
speak sweetly in full silence,
wear the plum of sores and scabs?
They forgive, each other, themselves,
again and again.
Spring, with all its fresh and blooms, reminds me of forgiveness. How the earth bleeds, tears, crumbles, and how the rain softens the wounds, fills in soil and crevice, blends and heals.