I Can Only Appreciate
Illustrated by ANNA ARROBAS
Here, mists that weave through the earth’s webs chill my skin.
Here, burdens that weigh us with nude reality, binding us to the gates of beauty, sting. Haunt us.
I hear in the fog not a cry of heartache but a plea: forgiveness for our hesitating love. For our key-fumbling.
I look around, and I see her in dry roots armoured with a wise hope that lies thin as an autumn frost. Bold as a cocked gun. Quiet as a bruise on softened skin.
I yearn to hold her, as she has held every life that breathes on her halting chest.
Yet her burdens are too strong, my hands too timid, her wounds too deep for my healing, and the meaning bound deep within her too mysterious.
Overwhelmed by a helpless tranquility, its taste stale against my blind selfishness, I can only appreciate.