Winter garden, rows
leaning low to mud, cold,
promising nothing.
The pale sun, lingers...
Are You still here? I saw You
in spring, green breezes
singing in the trees,
lusty crickets shouting grace!
Oh, why did You leave
this place, defiled?
When will You turn Your holy face
again to your unholy child?
(1/15 /13; rev. 1/14/19)
(1/15 /13; rev. 1/14/19)
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