The World Is Broken/The World Is Whole

 

She told me clouds are made of lace,

That they’re spun with fine silken strands

And pulled around on thin, taught threads,

Clumped or sprayed or stretched into bands.

 

But I think that the clouds are painted,

That clouds are all brushed onto the sky -

All just strokes and flourishes and drips,

Arranged to delight and please the eye.

 

She told me rains are falling tears,

From the spinners of the lace clouds;

In grief of a spent and spoiled world,

They cry beneath their stormy shrouds.

 

But I think that the rain is from the place

Where the colors of skies are mixed and swirled;

A wash that covers all things, everywhere,

This paint, it colors and heals the whole world.

 

She said that we live in a broken world,

An Ugly people on a ruined Earth,

That all is bleak and that all is our fault,

Because we spent all that ever had worth.

 

But I think this world is stronger than that;

It’s far above all the problems we’ve sought;

It’s beautiful here and hearty and good;

 I think this world is whole, but we are not.

The End

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