This is my favorite time of night, when the coyotes begin to hunt. I wish you could hear them, gray-voiced beneath a half-lit moon.
There are places where humans have ripped scars in the earth, down to the crust, trees broken and cliff-bands shattered and water turned to acrid muck.
I dream of rotting buildings, their once-white walls reclaimed by the dulling brown of decay. Ceilings drip in the watery pale darkness of flickering lights, bed springs rust and creak.
It is easy to let die that which we do not hold sacred.
We can watch with cold detachment as it is stripped and gutted.
We can slip the killing cut ourself.
We can use and let use, neglect and destroy, we can give away like so many pennies to a wishing well,
exploit and expose,
that which we do not hold sacred.
In choosing to deny something it’s sacredness, we ultimately deny it value. Thus, we protect ourself from the pain of its loss.
To hold anything sacred is to relinquish control.
Once upon a time, the most sacred thing in my very sacred world was blown to pieces, and I spent the following years slowly declaring that nothing would ever again be sacred, could ever have been so. Eventually , I found myself empty in a vast concrete dystopia, empty and hollow.
When nothing is sacred, why keep living?
Tonight, I close my eyes on that cold city. Pull rough sheets to cover my face and sink into its safety one last time.
In the morning, I’ll gather sticks to build a new altar. Pull on a sweater to cover my blood-lashed frostbit back.
I’ll choose to be sacred. I’ll open my eyes and say: Love is sacred.
With this fresh in my mind, I step forward, leaving ashen footprints on the snow-soft ground.