I only saw the words written,
requiring me to infer tone;
to assume either compassion
or conceit; to decide if the poet
mimed quotation marks when
he said, “diminished capacity,” —
or saints, for that matter —
if he even said the words out loud.
Either way, the phrase is
fragrant with failure, infused
with what might have been,
what came and went,
what once was lost . . .
and now is found faltering,
struggling, stumbling,
still hoping, as saints do,
failure is not the final word.
Forgiveness flows best from
brokenness; the capacity for
love is not diminished by
backs bowed by pain, or
hearts heavy with grief.
Write this down: the substance
of things hoped for fuels
those who walk wounded:
we are not lost; we are loved.
Peace,
Milton
I identify with your poem. Thanks for sharing yourself.
really, really loved!
This is really powerful. The last verse in particular about knocked me over. And I needed to hear that word today. Thank you.
Joy just stated, word for word, what I came here to say. You do not even know how you have helped me this day. Thank you.
Unilove aka Lisa
P.S. I quoted that last paragraph in a blog post of mine with attribution. I truly hope that is okay.