Saturday, December 3, 2011


Confluence bleeds
blue electric flame
till soul and spirit
breathe the same
from harvest cutting
Sharons long stemmed rose
to midnight shining
Southern Cross
street lamps line the path
His kingdom came.

Weeds whisper
as they toss
to the wind
and rattle
dry seed pods
as if promises
from pagan gods.

I heard them rustling sigh
“Our weakest are the first
to die
first to rise again”
in floral descant to what
the dusty weed-straw
chorus said:

“Valley-lily somewhere by
is Balm in Gilead
there is a Balm
in Gilead.”

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