from an evolving collection entitled Stirrup of the Sun & Moon
If you don't enter the Grieving Lands fully
that spirit will set itself up deep inside you
twisting your spine
warping your bones
until you can no longer stand on your own.
There is a Cosmic Anvil
stored behind one's own rib cage.
The ancient ones say: Put it to good use.
In the bending light of early dawn
two memory strands
suddenly came crashing through.
Their combined shimmer became a mirror.
I whispered under my breath:
I thought I'd rid myself of this old grief.
A stark reflection in that mirror revealed
my purification was not yet complete;
the weight of hurts I'd held in my bones
had bent me into a strange shape.
I'd become a creature devoid of hope or belief.
This was when I committed
to the long wandering road
leading to the smithy of the self
and made use of that hidden anvil there
and the hammer that is the soul.
Late into the night
I cracked and fired my bones
until gold poured out
and nothing was left of my grief.
Only when I'd fashioned myself
into something else
did I comprehend the power of release.
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com