There will be a time
when your spirit is curled up
tight
inside the snail shell of your body,
an easily cracked layer of heat
that you pull away from, begrudging
this time of waiting it out
curled in, still, unseeing.
There will be a time
when you stand in the shower
on quivering legs,
acts so simple, now a challenge
and the warm water sending
colors and movement behind your eyes,
a spring superbloom of sensation
you can barely register.
There will be a time
when you are so, so tired
and impossible words float
like clouds
and you will not grab for them,
but sink slowly.
There will be a time
when you hear fear in the voice
of someone who loves you
and a sister calls to tell you,
with all the power she has at her command,
that you are not allowed to die,
and you are fed extravagantly
by neighborhoods of love
and slowly simmered broth.
There will be a time
when whatever this is passes
like the sound of storm drumming on roof
becomes silence and birdsong,
and the tight clench that you were
loosens,
and you will know that you were lucky
every day running forward and back,
so amazing.
And whatever is next is welcomed.
(Melissa Fritchle 2020)