Hurricanes

We are not alone in this dance,

where shame strikes the core

and real broken hearts stop bleeding.

It is still here,

where the pain of everything

is dead 

like Winter is dead.

Dormant and waiting

to push through the anger

of Spring.

It is never fair to quantify pain.

As though yours or mine is more significant

because more was broken at the surface.

Swallow hard, 

the horse pills of life,

they say.

But what's not told,

is the story of containment that begins to brim over

and seep this toxic waste

silently into the soil.

Gently, the living suffocate

beneath the held breath of blame

as we all "buck up" and bear it.

Here, our tiny ones hold better wisdom;

wail and flail in the inner storm

gasp and groan

as the chaos surges through

then lay, all calm in the quiet pause

and with equal abandon bask 

in the light of joy.