Mona Helen Preuss
Wednesday Mourning —
The sun rises white-hot
Over the desert
As we descend into
A deep well
Of somber reflection
Pooling at our feet,
Encircling our souls.
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall short
Of the glory
Of the Universe.
Ritual becomes Tradition;
Sacrifice, we’re told,
Illuminates the Way
Out of Darkness.
Why not give up
Our search for Answers
And look instead
For the Questions?
Wisdom may be collective,
But Understanding is
A personal thing:
Only when your
Own tears fall
Do they arc,
And you see
Your rainbow.
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