You are poetry,
every lyric
more inscrutable,
yet more beautiful,
drawing me deeper
into a reverie
filled
with flowers
and lace.
Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
You are poetry,
every lyric
more inscrutable,
yet more beautiful,
drawing me deeper
into a reverie
filled
with flowers
and lace.
Written words
are lovers,
climbing into your heart
and changing
who you’ve
been.
Forgiveness
isn’t overlooking
transgressions;
it’s seeing them
in the their
fullest, most potent
essence,
and choosing
to reconcile anyway.
(Happy Palm Sunday!)



Every morning,
I push out
my love for you,
push it beyond my reach,
until I can no longer feel it.
Every night,
I see it standing in the field
and
hear it coming through the cracks,
closing in for another
suffocated sleep.
Blood,
fire,
grief,
I did this for you.
You always
look for peace
in me,
like a gambler
places
another
bet,
certain that
this,
this will be the time,
that hope
outwits
your odds.
It has
to be
a great
burden
to carry
my heart,
but one
wouldn’t
know it
by the way
you
move,
unladen.