Bees Lead the Way
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
It’s ok to shelter your heart.
Elegant safety, full of grace, full of heaven,
necessary shadows cradle the light,
bells ring softly, sound merging with forgiveness,
blending with the readying to let go,
bees lead the way to sweet sacristies,
wings thrumming with light,
lifting the sun from holy darkness.
That Stubborn Superhero
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Out in nature, which is
To say, in us—it happens
This way:
The longest night comes
Filling what little day there is left
With thinly veiled darkness,
That, veil after veil, begins
To cover the day, like
A shawl thrown in slow motion
Over a lamp.
After the night has had its run,
It slowly—you’d better believe it—
Shrinks back to a more manageable size,
It contracts as the day exhales,
And with each exhalation, spring,
Moment by seemingly imperceptible
Moment—swells with such joy
It can barely contain itself.
And the light begins to coax the darkness
Into slipping away into time and to allow
Itself to grow its slow, wild warmth.
We have all gone through darknesses
That seemed to last forever—
At least—I have—when I couldn’t
Believe any light would ever come
Ever, ever, again, and that the abyss
Of not being able to see or hardly move
Would enshroud me forever.
If this has ever happened to you,
Or maybe is happening to you
Right now—believe it—spring always
Comes—little by hardly noticeable little
Darkness becomes less and less
And seeds of exhaultation can’t wait
To burst into flowers and tangible light.
I am not saying all darkness is bad.
There is a holy darkness, touched
With water and earth, where fireflies
Bedazzle the night, where love-making
Eases us into the sweetest sleep.
I am talking about the darkness
That swallows the will and chews it
Practically into nothing.
Just as too much light burns,
Too much darkness freezes the soul.
So, take my word for it—as someone
Who has been there and is taken there
Against my will every year—the swallowing darkness
Turns and slips away like a receding flood of black ink
Eventually, leaving gardens of survival,
Fragrant with honeysuckle,
And damp with laughter.
You’d better believe it,
Or if, like me, sometimes
That is impossible to do–
Pretend to believe it—or even if
That is too hard to do—don’t then–
Because its true regardless:
Never once has the night held captive
The day forever. Day, that stubborn superhero,
Will break free of night’s weakening grasp,
And soar, ringing through the fields,
Leaving visible hope spreading
Over all the land.
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Nursing the Dark, Eating the Light
A Fable
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
One day, an acorn and a cicada nymph were talking underground, when a beam of light suddenly appeared shining down on the acorn.
“What is that?” asked the acorn.
“It’s light,” said the cicada.
“Why is it tugging at me?”
“That’s what light does.”
“What if I don’t want to move?”
“Dunno,” said the cicada, “I’ve been under here for 17 years. I like the dark.”
“I haven’t been under here for nearly as long,” said the acorn, “but it sure is comfortable.”
“And cool,” said the cicada, “and snug, and yeah, so cool—wonderfully cool.”
“What do I do?” asked the acorn.
“About what?”
“The pull. I mean, my heart feels like it’s breaking, and something inside wants out.”
“Go with it,” said the cicada. “So part of you moves into the light? Your roots will always be in darkness.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?” Said the cicada, “Well, when the light draws me out, and I climb a tree and wait for my wings to spill out, then my roots will be in the sky.”
“Should I try to fight the light?” asked the acorn.
“Good luck,” said the cicada. “Funny thing is, once during late summer, you fell to the ground and the darkness pulled you under and you loved it. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t resist. I heard you sinking down. You were weeping and laughing all at the same time because it was so nourishing and safe-feeling to be under here. Now you want to fight the light. Try this, just try breathing in the light, and see what happens.”
The acorn did as the cicada suggested and she suddenly felt the light breathing her and she found herself unfurling into the bright, blue sky, and the light–she was eating the light.
“There ya go,” said the cicada.
“Aren’t you coming?” asked the acorn as she turned away.
“When I have suckled the roots of the mother tree long enough,” said the cicada, “then I will come. For now I am still nursing the dark.”