In the season of dark dreams
some fierce angel slips her hand over the many
small scars of my soul.
Out in the wild fields
the silver gray milkweed
empties her seeds
like prayers, like salt, like white stars
over the world’s spine.
On this solstice night, I offer this tiny poem, this small prayer, this reminder of the darkness and of the light, that place where they meet.
Whether or not our dreams are dark because of the length of the nights or for some unspoken, private reason, we are told there is a powerful guardian who ‘slips her hand over the many small scars of my soul’. There is comfort in that acknowledgement of our inevitable scars – the hand does not erase but reaches out, someone brave enough to see the darkness and not turn away.
Meanwhile, in the wild, seeds scatter throughout the world – common as salt, numerous as white stars in the night sky, potent as prayers. For me, there is redemption in this image, the promise that we are not alone.
May you feel the support and protection of a hand over your own small scars as we move now toward the increasing light.