There are some wounds
that do not heal.
Wounds that ache
when the wind blows
and cry-out when
the dew point
Is high.
Wounds we might
“forget,” sort of,
until we come
face-to-face
with that which was
unbearable.
Fortunately,
these wounds
do not live at
the surface
of existence.
No, these particular
old injuries
are buried deep
underground—
consciously, unconsciously—
so that life can
move forward.
It’s hard, sometimes,
to respect the intuition
of the psyche,
who decided for me
long ago,
to go so deep with
this one.
Even though
it is,
most obviously,
counter-intuitive,
counter-productive and
counter-evolutionary
for the larger whole.
But like that nosey
neighbor who
means so well,
when my wits and
wisdom are about me,
I choose
a response of
compassion.
A choice that invokes
and embodies
all the tenderness
one can muster, to soothe
the ache, to rock the
soul, until the bleeding
stops.
Again.
-Me
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