Poesy #7

The heat floods back through the breeze,
a sacred rush twisting in the wind
pouring out of the sky.
The colors rise in blooming fields
and bubble toward heaven like carbonated prisms.

The browned and barren trees
which pricked me to tears
for want of greenery
swell and flower.
The shadowed woods and stark plains
once thick with dust
that caked my eyes and hands
with blindness
rumble and stammer with torrents of growth.

Now I am granted a blessing improbable:
the kiss of God upon my face
when God has been dead.

Now I am awoken by the hand of joy
upon a sea-glass heart.

What glimmer–
what obscured wonder
now spills down the sides
of my overfull head?
It touches and reinvents my whispered prayers.

Tears grasp the hem of my skirt,
traveling with the rapture
of falling at Your feet for another eternity.


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