Barren branches against
gray winter sky
betray no hint of Spring.

Shadowy starting-over time,
indistinguishable from death,

Summer’s shroud,
now decaying underfoot,
impossible to forget.

Droplets heavy in the air,
a veil obscuring anything new.

Freezing, frozen, longing for
clear skies and no longer comfortable
shifting only in increments.

All words could become poetry,
All sounds could become music,
All shapes could become art,
on the other side
of this dormant season.

Pressing on, searching for
more spacious words
than the ones
men gave me.

Wholeness more universal,
Beauty more real,
Care more tender,
Value more foundational
than their limited imaginations could see.

And when I find them,
they’re not just for me.

One thought on “Untitled

  1. Pingback: FRIDAY FAVORITES FOR PRAYER AND WRITING | The Contemplative Writer

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