Journey

I have often bent my head to rest on a pillow, not linen and feathers, but concrete and small squalid stones. Like the breath of a thousand butterflies, a little wind has covered my exposed and tested bones. My lips have often whispered in God’s ear, and He has answered with a bit of stale bread. Now I sit quietly in corners listening to the gossip of honeybees, whose wings are translucent in an August sun. I watch my skin grow thin and fragile as sheets of onion-skin or the wings of moths. It has been a journey - harrowing and flush with revelation, leaving me gaping at the wonder of it all.