Sword and Whetstone
I think it’s too soon.
Far too soon.
The stitches are still visible
Though the pain has subsided —mostly.
The marks and scars are almost healed,
But still may draw questions from friends.
My new healer, confidant, shepard
Into the light out of the darkness
I resided has come and…
I question it.
Is this still too soon?
My heart needing mending
Like a sword needing a whetstone,
Yet such a weapon is nervous to
Be unsheathed to the elements again.
To be seen again by others.
To be held and cared for by another.
Is this still too soon?
The anvil once cold is now warm
And the healing hammer is ready
To knock out the pain— strike by strike.
Is this still too soon?
How does one know if the sword is sharp
To withstand the elements
If it is never tested in the wild?
Wild is life.
