Posted in metaphor, Nature, poetry


Photo by Tim Mossholder on

Almost lost amidst dead leaves
and severed limbs,
a nest felled by the storm,
barely more than twigs.

On other walks, it would have been
a mass to be avoided,
side-stepped in the rain.
But reason,
shamed by distant fluttering,
let sentiment compel
a search for life
within that sodden lump,
so plainly delicate and still.

How to quell despair,
when prodding leaves no doubt,
spills a hash of shattered shells,
a mother’s beak still full?

I laid small stones by the debris,
a bed too frail for splitting skies,
crushing hail,
heeding wings,
gazed far aloft at hope.

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Posted in Faith, poetry

On the El’

He walked up to me,
this man on the El’,
a stranger,
and said the Lord asked him to bless me.

His suit was gray,
and his tie was…
I don’t recall.

The essence of caramel tinged his skin,
and his eyes,
a feast of lime, maize, blueberry,
intensified as he spoke—
enticed by…
A tired sigh,
empty stare?

I can’t remember being hungry.
I don’t believe in angels.
I do not worship gods.

But on that morning,
the scent of sweet, molten gold
rose from the quaking ground…

…and I tasted faith.

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