Poetry

A downed oak, toppled by time, pithless log leveled, imploding, rotting edifice under blown snow ...

Rococo branches' scribbled bliss (to skies of cirrus filtering streaking-linen grace ...

I felt such freedom, when they had departed.

In dreams an island looms in silhouette and speaks through the outline of a mouth and murmurs ...

The color of deep ice, the blue frozen in crevasses, a hue like none other.

That moment when, in the midst of wreckage and tears, you see a scarlet cardinal across the way ...

What if, when my steps darken a sanctuary to become separated from the world, a holy inferno enveloped my body ...

Sitting in his throne of stone, cut from crags atop the world’s tallest mountain, overseeing all, the king-god breathed deeply in his lungs before exhaling forth a rushing word, what appeared to mortal senses like raging winds that carried thundercracks across the waves ...

The Holy Spirit comes in while you are quiet. There is nothing voice yet many questions while our tongues are still.