Richard Bohn
                

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Burnt Offerings

These hearts of mine, these thin clay envelopes enclosing the often tedious moments of both our becoming, I hurl, with confident hubris, into the future, only to dodge their flaming fall, shattering at my feet.

After resurrection I discover them full of memories, seeping slowly from fine fissures, drop by drop, filling my heart

If you let your fingers trace the sharp edge of these jagged shards, be mindful, for you teeter near a crevasse, whose abysmal floor is littered with broken vows, failed dreams, and the white brittle bones of hope.  Not only yours, but  your mother's and father's, grandparent's, great grandparent's and beyond.  Look deep into this chasm and watch it fill with the debris of human experience.

Why do these tender, bruised fragments, which fit together so very beautifully into ancient forms, complete in their brokenness, remembering their wholeness, and beckoning quietly to us, serve as inspiration to follow ?

These hearts of mine have experienced pain, but it is my wish that whosoever sees them, touches them, remembers them, or hears of them, is inspired by hope.  That in our breaking lies our wisdom.  Our own becoming, beautiful after our healing.