by Adela Wilcox
Sometimes there are no words. Nothing comes out right, because we don’t know how to package it.
The package doesn’t have to be perfect. Whatever the package can’t hold is of no use to you anyway. Anything so brittle that can’t be held by the strength of tears isn’t worthy of the love that formed them.
Sometimes there are no words. We don’t know how to express that which we haven’t connected to within ourselves.
We find connection in service to each other, and empathy follows. The fragility of the human heart will forge connections which the mind cannot perceive.
Sometimes there are no words. The acts of others seem unfathomable, unconscionable. Inhuman.
Solidarity arises from the best of our common soul, giving us a common goal, and a common purpose.
Sometimes there are no words. Loss brings us to our knees, leaves us speechless, and humble.
In time we rebuild. In time we open our hearts again. And in time, we find those words which were once so elusive, and speak them to ourselves when no one else can speak them to us.
©2018 H. Adela Wilcox
Adela Wilcox lives in the beautiful Sierra Nevada Foothills of California. A writer, broadcaster, activist, musician, and gardener, Adela has published two volumes of poetry: Chrysalis Whispers (2010) and Phoenix Landed (2017).