The 

Holy

Sorrow

Like Sundays,

my sadness 

is holy.

I am

resigned

like the rain

to falling.

I have my

own gravity.

Am I

the only one

to find

living under

a cloud

brings out

the world’s

colors? 

Life is a ruin

and maybe 

that’s 

its splendor,

its rococo

mystery.

Consider 

the ancient

Colosseum

built 

for combat,

with 

only our 

suffering 

as spectacle.

A theatre 

of cruelty

designed

to fleece

the breath

from the

crowd.

Only an

earthquake

could 

increase 

the grandeur

of its rubble.

But I'm after

wholeness.

A liquid 

intelligence

is how I

make my

way.

I embrace

my grief

to ward off 

the perils

of unfeeling.

My sorrow 

is love

for what was

and will 

not 

come again.

If you're

like me

you've 

stumbled 

upon 

a pilgrimage 

to find

a shard

of silver 

in a gold

quarry;

a recognition

of yourself in

unforgiving 

light.

Life is in

the gravel

unloading its

grief at

our feet.

Did I say

gold quarry?

I meant a

salt mine.

Our tears 

seep 

through

its

cracks

like light

from the 

moon.

Still,

don't you 

want

to live

as long as

grit can

make

a flower 

and sorrow

form

a pearl?

I do.

I live

as in a

terrarium.

I could

be

Lazarus,

recycling 

my breath

in order

to bring 

more humidity

to my

retort.

My soul,

uprooted

as an

open hand,

reaches

upward

like a faith.

If I'd not 

found

sadness

beautiful, 

I’d never

have survived,

and this year 

would have

been merely

for coming 

to terms with

just so

unlikely

a grace.

Peter Valentyne

December 2020