When seasons fail
and pain descends
and my heart hides from me.
And all I have is the numb, sick pain in my stomach
where is shelter found?
Oh God- divine mother,
you hold me within,
as a mother holding me- her pregnancy.
Flesh of my flesh,
Bone of my bone,
Mind of my mind,
Spirit of my spirit.
Nothing is wasted.
But God the pain burns.
But not being able to submerge into that pain.
Not to find immersion.
Immersion to conversion.
© Kathleen Keaney 2021
