L'aura del Campo

The mist that parts; the ice that melts [328] (~225 words)

The mist that parts; the ice that melts

Winds blew from the south bringing warmth and clouds that couldn't hold onto joy any longer.

The sky pimply sissed dark wet sheets.

Thirsty plants struggling in cracks rejoiced. Homeless under the bridge huddled wherever they could to keep dry.

Deep cracks that had exposed Inner Earth absorbed what they could, as all sides slowly edged closer, as if to touch — or heal.

What couldn't be contained flooded the thoughts of anyone who bothered to listen.

Most were deaf.

Eons of disbelief had ill-prepared them for letting go of sorrow. For generations they had wrapped themselves in despair. It kept them cold and miserable and as far apart from as possible, like mist that never parts or ice that will not melt.

Now warm showers threatened to wash it all away.

What could they say?

Deny the life-giving moisture? Curse the sun! Hurt had kept them alive. Each generation memorized the slightest slights to pass them on. They kept them close to shriveled hearts and repeated them like mantras.

Do not trust. Do not believe your own eyes. Never touch.

The rain poured down.

Behind the clouds the sun smiled patiently. There would be time enough to shine after the cleansing to reward those who chose healing, as they basked in warmth and beauty.

Mist parted. Ice melted. Hope resurged — regardless.

© Kåre Enga [177.328] (30.januar.2021)

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