“When does wholeness happen?”
I asked the dry grass poking through
the snow, and I sat, waiting
for the answer, but the grass did not
speak and neither did the snow.
I looked up into the sky without clouds,
asking what it feels like to be whole,
but the sky just kept staring at me
and never acknowledged the question.
I touched the tree’s bare branches
and asked, silently this time, “Will I
ever be whole?” The tree wrapped
cold limbs around me and whispered,
“Keep asking questions, but stop
looking for answers.”