F E E L I N G S

Yearning is a sharp, jagged, hot despair
Like the last embers of a dying fire
Struggling to see the light;
Like my desire darling
To see your face.

And hopeless too
As the aging fire
My yearning;
Death has stolen you
And I must weep.

Hope came slowly and softly
As smooth and gentle as a drifting cloud;
From deep in my depression I saw it
Ready to be touched,
Savoured and taken,
With slight effort.

Despair is such hard work
Tiring, needing all of me;
I could take my choice
And I chose hope
Which demands so little.
© Helen Catherine Cramer
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