Ascension

I have lived in hell
and I have returned
to the living.
You say lightly,
"You've been to hell and back."
But you don't really understand.

Before the descent,
poems and stories
sprang like cold fountains of water
up from psyche's depths
splashing clear and fresh
on the desert of my days.

I do not remember
hell itself
(memory cannot bear that burden)
but I know it was
wordless.

And now
here in this new air
where trees bring leaves to birth
and spring birds play on the wind
that softly blows winter away,
now, ascended through the dark,
I do not remember
even how to hold my pen.

from A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
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