Monday, January 14, 2019

Winter Garden


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)

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