Chaos, wasn’t it?
Dissonance and double-speak
What we were told
What we watched and felt
What a slanderous soup of fits
Where were we to find our breath?
Pausing, finally, to ask what’s Possible
Starting there, this exhausting journey
Ended here, this beginning bliss
A thing still strange to us
But oh, isn’t forgiveness fine?
Found only by grasping hold of The hand
In Whose image we’re made
I’ve arrived
You’ve arrived

August alone again, prove me wrong
Afire, awaiting
Gingerly