The Great Opening

It was the son of a soldier,

a soldier who killed his own people.

It was that gentle son who went

in despair to his grandfather’s

bridge to ask in his

solitude why.

 

And that night he dreamt

that everyone who’d been hurt

and everyone who’d done the hurting

met on that bridge. And in their

awkwardness and pain, it began

to rain flowers which grazing

their skin opened their faces

and they were healed.

 

And the flowers, falling

into the water, brought

the fish who thought

the petals were food.

 

And the son of the soldier

woke committed to the building

of bridges and to the food

of flowers raining

from the sky.

 

A Question to Walk With: In conversation with a friend or loved one, tell the story of a bridger you admire, someone who is committed to the building of bridges.

bridge

This excerpt is from my book, The Way Under The Way: The Place of True Meeting (Sounds True, 2016).

*photo credit: Pixabay

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