a poem I wrote in church this morning

From Pompeii to Hawaii

My heart is a dead thing
or a lost thing
or a buried thing.
When I open the doors of my chest
nothing but trash and dark mold tumble out.
It is ash and sulfur in me.
Which I suppose is a life of sorts,
volcanic life;
the sort that fissures out in heat and effervescence,
dying the rivers of my living a bright, cool-aid blue.
All because I have heard your voice
calling
--begging--
for me to return
(sort of).
So here's the thing I tell myself:
volcanic soil is the richest on earth.
yes, the initial years are barrent and stark
they stumble forward full of striated, homogenous nothing
on a geological timetable no less
but eventually (eventually)... you look like Hawaii.
I have faith that even though I mourn today
(and I mourned yesterday)
(and I will mourn tomorrow)
that I am wildly alive.
that my heart is strong in spite of its awkward beat.
Even though I am buried under acres of betrayal and sadness
I
am
wildly
alive.
And eventually the mold and the ash
will allow me to emerge
verdant and fecund.
that my smile will reach all the way to my eyes and warm the world around me
once again.
I have this faith -- this picture of who I will be.
it keeps me warm here
in the dark.