High in the quiet snow covered mountains,
My heart
Ushered by a dream
Awakened to darkness
Startled into revelation
A year since my breast was cut away.
I will never be the same.
In the dream
A dark star awaits,
The star reflected in scans and biopsy reports,
In long pauses and shaky voices
Of nurses
And doctors
And heads of departments
In the scientific names and details
Critical to bodily survival,
Lost in piles of paperwork.
In the dream
The star is no longer hidden deep within,
But centered above me
So that
I lost myself in what appeared to be
A twisted cross of ebony
Turning toward the darkness
Walking though my body,
Completely alone, singled out
I found myself
Coming into prayer.
Not through the door of an imposing cathedral,
Not on my knees at my bedside,
But through a softening
Given by time
A lens to focus my breath
Prayer is not a universal language like music or beauty,
Prayer welcomes the unknown
Prayer is the call to listen
Prayer disarms the mind
Prayer creates form from loss
It is the labor of the soul turning inside out.
It is the
Seed sprouting
Bud opening
Fish splashing
Bird singing
Tree swaying
Wonder
Where the visible is given to the darkness,
The hidden and held lost in light.
Angie Alkove -3/07/2023