How storm clouds
swallowing the horizon
seem to dissipate
when I have no access
to anything
but you and me
and this moment.
How I wish to retreat
into this cocoon of comfort
forever, never again to feel
suffering for which
I have no answers,
only despair.
How gale winds
are less terrifying
with your hand in mine
and how over coffee
every morning
I must remember
to tell you
I am grateful.
I considered titling this poem Gaining Strength to Soar, the sound of the repetitive S’s rolling so sweetly off the tongue. But I could not. Before one can soar, one must fly—one up and down stroke at a time. As I emerge from the shadows of sorrow, may gratitude be my tailwind.
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