pink pearls

I hate admitting this, but it’s been a stressful couple of days…weeks…months, actually. Nick and I have have been gnawed to the bone by the demands of our move. We have almost nothing left to give.

This poem is for him, and for our dear friends who are running a marathon of equal difficulty.


won’t you celebrate with me
what we have shaped into
a kind of life?
what did we see except ourselves?
we made it up
here on this bridge
clay and moonbeams
our hands holding tight
come celebrate with me
that something is
budding anew
if we crack the shell
we will find the pearl

Photo by Bill Dickenson, used with permission.

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