What softness comes with first light;
Birdsong and a gentle breeze wash the sky.
Breath drawn deep, a pause, so comes the rhythm of the day.
I still wake in the dark hours, defenseless before the past.
Yet now I wish the stark memories well and let them on their way.
When before, emotionally exposed, they became my winding-cloth.
Time heals all wounds but does not touch trauma;
We grow around the pain, locking it in to make it ours.
Then we look out on the world and colour it with suffering.
Suffering finds friends, happily gathering commiseration.
Stronger, ever stronger it must be acknowledged to survive.
Soon the suffering is shared with all, touching everyone we meet.
But patience, hard thing, and its wise elder detachment.
Only stilling self to silence can sickness be seen to cure.
The great purging takes pain and pleasure and all we once possessed.
Just as darkness is darkness, thoughts are just thoughts.
Waking into the early morning I am no longer swaddled with the past.
Ever now aborning naked, open to all that comes.