Maybe yours is meant for a deep valley,

or perhaps it will be washed clean from your brow at the riverside.

It could be lifted from you by a human embrace

or an unexpected glance standing in line at a busy coffee shop.

 

Sometimes,

with the mystery of the way the soul works,

it can be taken from you in the midst of a dream,

leaving you fresh and child-like with the arrival of morning

as if you didn't have to do a thing.

 

Mine is a hardscrabble road

that leads to the mountaintop

where I lift mine up

to all there is

the way I was taught.

 

But whoever you are, for goodness sake,

please listen to me when I say: 

Grief has to move.

 

Through you, and beyond you, grief seeks a release.

It isn't to be feared.

It is a rare golden dove with a temporary roost inside you,

all so it can carry

what you need to let go

into the heart of the sun.

 

Once you open and release,

and once it arrives into that fiery embrace,

your renewal is moments away.

 

But if you hold onto it,

grief becomes stored in your bones

and that will be your undoing.

 

Much of the world

is not what it could be

all because of people holding on to an ancient grief.


(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Mountain Above, Mountain Below, from Watermusic, by Remco Helbers


 

 

 

 

 

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