Turn

We are fireside icicles.

Hot-tempered, cold-shouldering anyone

Who doesn’t share our view,

While the news yells feverpitched freezeframes,

We are snowflake on tongue.

Tiptoeing the flamelicked tightrope

Above the black dismay.

We are tightened jaw looking away

From loose screwed lost souls.

Finders keepers we whisper.

And what could I do anyway.

And what could I do anyway.

And what could I do anyway.

But maybe.

Begin with this.

Just this.

Turn toward the fire.

Feel it burn.

See the raw red.

Ask the other icicles what it feels like to melt.

I dare you.

Cut the tightrope and splash into your own despair.

Drink it.

Taste the tang of honest grief.

I double dare you.

Relax your jaw and look.

Pain hurts less when it feels seen.

And remember

We are finders of stories.

We are keepers of stories.

And we are here to bear witness.