good as new
To be fresh as frosted sunbeams, to be newly alive every morning, to choose the hope of a child-heart when the days are piled like Babel and strength grows too strong to fight terror without being it, this my aim. To ride the crest of the life-wave and cling lightly to the sea skin when it’s ground into sand by a heavy storm. To be like the recycled breeze that stirs through the darkest corners and sees the pollution of humanity; the wind that carries scoffing across a campus, chaperones the fog in inner city bars, hears the cries of innocence raped behind dark curtains. Sees, blows, hears the pain world. But blows the hope. Once in hurricane, once in tear-brimming alleyway, once in smoker’s lungs, once in flickering Paris trees, once in stifled Asia streets, now in blessed Texas sun, blowing, not the pain, not the despair, not the evil. Blowing fresh.