Pain, like a toothache.
Pain, wearing its rainbow dress of many colors, swirling, taunting.
Pain, like an incessant knife, trimming away the excess.
Dull pain graying a January afternoon.
Razor pain shocking us from the complacency of the ways we turn from our truth.
The way pain wears away at edges, like water lapping endlessly against stone, rounding us, shaping us into newness in the lake of ourselves.
The way we cease to speak about our visitor because it’s futile. Pain allows no whining, in the end.
It is itself.
If you stay with her–and do not run exhausted out the back door of your day–she sometimes turns to a ragged joy, a sweet joy, a confounded joy which keeps opening onto itself.