Beloved, Do Not Be Astonished At The Fiery Trial

These words keep after me, and pursue me to the uttermost. I'm glad they do; there's something about being in touch with the struggle that makes more sense to me than almost anything else. Except sometimes, when other, more lovely things make more sense. But those things bloom like overnight flowers, spots of warmth in a tepid dark that lasts for a while and drains away. The light in the morning is always blue and cool to the touch. Everything looks the way it should, if not the way I want in all seasons.