Amid the verdant wood, I noted nature’s scars,
the marks on stem or trunk where once attached was leaf or limb;
the blemish a symptom of loss and a symbol of strength to carry on.
Amid the course of human living, I note our scars,
the marks, say, of an involuntary fall and breaking of bone or tearing of flesh
or the sign of surgery’s curing surety.
Then, too, sadly, are the scars formed from the violence of human will…
the rise and fall of a striking hand or fist…
the misguided, rocketed-launch of spittle-sputtered words of
the conscious, vainly-legitimated disregard,
whether individual or communal, circumstantial or institutional,
of common civility
when the nobility of compassion for persons
loses in a falsely-orchestrated war with fidelity to “the law”.
And none, whether perpetrators or victims,
can know the end when the tissue – physical, psychosocial, spiritual – forms…
Will it be a sign of healing
or the mere, drear enfolding of an ever-festering wound;
one that, one day, may…will burst
and, worse, in self-destruction or retaliation