Sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness —
Galway Kinnell

Here where my hurts collide,
where they divide, where they disappear
like the loveliness of leaves blazing
then fading and letting go –
something I’ve yet to embrace.
In the forest: This.
This wounded trunk. This heart
that pumps in wholeness yet feels
like shrapnel in my chest will heal,
and the damaged place
will be stronger, tougher for the mending.
We’ve all heard of kintsugi,
but gold is not a scar – precious, yes.
Costly, yes. It has worth.
Russet and flame, magenta and amber,
these leaves hold the memory of green.
Branches bared remember the sap,
the blood of heartwood, that sleeps. A pulse
that quickens then knits the hurt,
where the edges will roughen into the ridges
of the trunk. Merge until the grief has luster
              in any season.