THE YEAR HE BECAME A TINY BIRD PECKING…

A bundle of feathers weighing nothing;

a wraith leaving no footprints in the snow;

stumbling on until he reached the valley of bones,

and stood there with others, in their desolation, dripping sadness.

However, their agony became his cure:

befriending them he listened to their stories,

(forgave their tall tales) gave them strength each day to see beyond their particular story; gaining strength himself as a requirement to be there for them.

.

Eventually, one by one, they left that place;

leaving him to close the door on his own memories, and come home.

Today, whenever he meets a homeless person he still listens to their story   –

because, as he discovered long ago, our stories are not who we really are.

staring into the mirror

the old man
tries to remember