None has yet seen the meadow within
Twisted by a thundering storm,
Witnessed the great, strong sea
Pummeled by the tempest.
I've sealed the window
Closed the blinds
Hidden them from every pair of eyes,
For even I am afraid to look.
Like a fresh new garden
Beaten down by relentless hail
Is that place I've closed away.
Yet without the storm
Would not the meadow die?
Don't its rains make it greener,
And the winds make strong the tender stems?
And without the tempest
Would the sea be dry?
Be naught but a deep, barren wasteland?
Doesn't the water give new life a place to thrive?
What of the garden,
That raw, beautiful place?
Rain makes it grow,
Both the flowers and the thorns.
Pain leaves behind itself and
Something more.
Shall I throw back the curtain?
Peal away the paint
That time has crinkled on the pane?
What if I opened the window?
Let someone else see inside to the place
Where the sea and the meadow were born?
Could they walk me through my garden?
Help me tend the watered seeds.
Perhaps. Maybe some day.
For now the window's shut.
And all I dare do from time to time
Is stare at the thick, heavy curtain
That hides that inner world of possibilities born of injustice
From all eyes,
And especially from mine.
