A letter from my sister
brings some redemption to a lost day.
The knowledge that the heart
is capable of loving so many,
breaking so often, yet healing again
Is of no comfort to me.
Soft night slips quietly
curtaining the evils of daylight
And the stealers of souls go to bed
beneath blankets of oblivion.
Or, as my beloved Miss Emily Dickinson puts it:
"Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain."