A shitty prognosis can feel like a blight,
a dismal cloud obscuring the light.
The dust turns your world into endless night,
droughting your hope and dimming your sight.
But you find within a spring beyond plight,
sweet water flowing with grace and with might.
You steer your body away from your fright
and crawl through the tangle toward something bright.
A ritual journey, a shamanic rite:
You lift up your hand as a place to alight.
The spirit descends and prepares for flight
like a brightly colored and longtailed kite
that launches you up to the “highest height,”
out of the gloaming and into the light.