That hurt that stops you like a bear trap,
metal teeth cutting to the bone
is really but a raindrop on a hot rock.
It sizzles and then evaporates.
But the mind tells the story
of pain and blood, and a cold winter storm
until the hurt becomes a bomb
dropped on the city of life,
mushroom cloud dissipating all reason and love.
What if, instead, on this longest, darkest night,
in the knowingness of our eternity
we leave our backpack of hurt in the valley
and climb switchbacks with the Beloved.
No weight on our shoulders
we skip up the trail,
and those we meet feel the love
and they too release their load.
Now the sun shines boldly
and we dance on the mountaintop
holding hands with our true self
in the eternally bright day.