When Lazarus heard his name
he took a sudden breath.
With visceral trembling blood resurged.
But then, as when awakening some days,
he lay a moment, mired,
reluctant to rise from the familiar
swaddling of his death.
Rising, even more than dying,
there could be no return:
for if he chose to stand,
all he knew would then be lost
And still now every morning,
each momentary wish for healing
is a risk, a wakening call
to change, to choose,
to be again made new,
and leave so much behind.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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