When the world was grey through and through,
and the friends we thought we knew
only revealed themselves in pantomime,
mouthing the thought
of whomever was seated across from them,
and when our theology
seemed to only echo the sound of a space between
invisible clouds,
the way emptiness preaches to uncertainty,
I knew that her heart would still be overwhelmed,
and I knew that the girl
I met in a velvet plush room, when seeing the universe again,
like the first time all over,
would spread her arms and a fresh assortment –
azaleas, star flowers,
chrysanthemums, Easter lilies, and those always
glowing marigolds – would rise like new,
and my down-trodden views, my neglect
and well-tended negativity would again fade,
seeing life and history and birth and death
as a convoluted mixture of the eventual,
the possible, the declared and undeclared,
and the always flowering present, a snap-image
of doubt-shaking hope in the face of ash,
and she would always, always teach me
about beauty, trust, and patience.
