It swims in our well
of sorrow and grief,
crying to be lifted out.

It lives in the stars
of our constant
outreaching,
sending backwards
to us in time.

It walks among us
in flowers and trees
that speak to us
with scent and delight.

A flower sees life
but for a few days,
but each is different,
spectacular, calling
to its own future.

It surrounds us
in the whispers
of our ancestors;
their blood pulses
through our veins.
We are never lost
from them even though
they may be lost to us.

The world may be
in flames, burning
around us, children
dying. And then,
especially, we must
rise up, find our voice,
call to the universe,
         create,
fight for those
who cannot.

If we only wrote
about the ephemeral,
bright green leaves
that unfurled and fell
downward, we would
miss the root
beneath the ground
that unfolded
and grew upward.

We could think
of only death,
lie down on the graves
of our loved ones.
Or we could pick up
their song, add it
to ours, carry on,
living for them,
and ourselves.

We could see in the dark
of the dark of the dark,
no reason, no hope,
no hope at all.
But there in the dark
of the dark of the dark
is where a breaking heart
cracks open,
sends down its anchor,
sends up its first
tender shoot,
seeking light.

                 Janell Strube
                 March 17, 2024