We are on the Mountaintop

This piece was written in honor of the 50 lives lost at the fatal Orlando shooting at Pulse nightclub. Tragedies are never easy to face, and through this piece I express my great love and sympathy.

Upon the mountaintop they stood.

Thousands up on thousands of mourners

in a colorful array of clothing and skin.

 

Draped in the blood of the angels swept into heaven too soon,

hated by an angry child of a man too soon.

 

I came upon these mourners and lay my head to rest,

letting the pain of my unwavering basket fall into the hands of the grieving.

 

Their fingers shook uncontrollably against the heaviness of my basket,

where their eyes cast down into the intermingled lines within their palms.

 

Rough hands spent days, months, years in preparation.

Making elaborate sculptures carved in such detail they came to life and started walking.

 

Soft hands hold the flexibility of water, and not just that of oceans or rivers.

But tears,

like waterfalls traveling through every inch of their fingertips.

Holding space for thundering feelings cast down from bulging rain clouds.

 

A storm continues to rise, filling my heart with fear.

 

The mourners on the mountaintop form a circle around me,

their rough and soft hands closing in on everyone.

 

We are on the mountaintop,

and we are a colorful array of clothing and skin.