And there

In that

Little voice

Which always

Speaks but

Is hardly

Listened comes

Blessings in

The forms

Of whispers

Spoken by

God himself

One day

When this

Flurry of

Storms pass

And I

Burrow from

Beneath the

Burden of

Memory perhaps

I shall

Once again

Spy an

Icycle melting

From the

Sun and

Know that

I too

Am healed