With my best understanding enclosed in a shell,
My pain is but its breaking. Even as the stone
Of the fruit must break so its heart may see the sun,
It must know pain. This is true of most everyone.
My heart, if kept in wonder by all that I’m shown
By my life’s daily miracles, in joy must dwell.

My pain is no less wonderous than is my joy.
My heart has its own seasons, and I must accept
Them as I do the same passing over my fields.
I embrace barren times as those bringing high yields.
I observe in serenity. No pain is kept
In the unconscious darkness where it may destroy.

Much of my pain is self-chosen. The physician
Within offers the bitter potion that will heal
My sick self through my winters of grief. I must trust
In the good doctor’s wisdom that will readjust.
Though in silent tranquility through my ordeal,
I partake of the remedy as the best plan.

His hand, though hard and heavy, I know beyond doubt,
Is guided by the tender hand of the unseen.
And the cup that he brings, though my lips it will burn,
Has been fashioned from clay. From the potter I learn
That it’s moistened with his sacred tears. My routine
Fluctuates as my mood does, but I’m not freaked out.