After fire has burnt down your house,
the old skin of imperfection doesn’t seem
so terrible anymore.
There are worse things than that and
as watersheds go,
you’ve lived through them all—
you endure, you’ve learned
each brings a mercy of its own.
Now there are bones and memories that creak—
the crashing footfall of youth exhausted,
its intoxicant flush tamed,
solidity spent, traded in
for more sophisticated sensibilities.
Accustomed to imperfection,
light streams through its cracks and holes as
you walk weightless now
in upward, ever widening spirals
freeing yourself towards heaven.
2012 ~ S. Wolfington