Forty days and forty nights,
I spent alone
Encased in this hard wooden vessel
Of my heart.
Left stranded, forsaken.
Forty days, listening to the cold bitter winds of scorn
Battering my outer shell.
Forty nights, increasing the storm outside
With the tempest of my tears
Raining down on an unfertile floor.
Timeless days after, spent in limbo.
Tossing on indifferent seas,
Some waves cruel, others warm and welcoming.
The harshness of the storm had passed,
But I had yet to find land,
To find Hope within my sight,
Within my reach.
Rocking too and fro
Cradled in the semi-comforting arms of solitude
As the seas changed around me.
The hours slipped by
Fleeting and inconsequential as the dew,
Slow and relentless as the onward march of mountains.
I opened the window of my soul the barest crack,
Let the sun in, inch by inch.
Finally daring, caring, to let the first beacon of reborn life
Fly from my heart on pure-white wings,
Soft, fragile, fluttering, flickering.
Afraid to trust,
More afraid not to try.
Hope flew out from my being
On a swift wing,
And, miraculously
Returned unscathed,
A harbinger
Of my world's rebirth.