In the dark, I dream a miracle.
I know it by its teasing thought,
can sense the damaged nerves
renewed, the shattered spine
empowered to hold me upright.

Here, everything scintillates
and I can bend, stretch to hold
my fingers to the fullest moon.
But this fragile vertebrae will melt
come the break of dawn;
then I reach for meaning
in the subtle shades of blue,
feel the woodland air,
the susurrus of wind against my skin.

I never want to see
the face that looks right through me,
the obstacles that block and bar my way –
except you, brave soul,
who quietly meets my gaze.



© 2012 Louise Hastings