Eyes, puffed from ever-present unspokens, blankly open
Knees, too weak, bend; while white-knuckled fingers grasp prismatic shards
The suckled pacifier stanch the raging flood…until the Word speaks:
raise yellow-gold from dirty snow,”
…Where flood-saturated roots rot and ice-broken limbs shrivel,
send the white-gold warmth of breezy kisses in renewal.
…Where dirty fingers smudge and mar pristine emerald coats,
polish with a crimson cloth of sturdy weave.
…Where drought and darkness ravage the genesis of fruit,
caress, nourish and tend till bud appears.
“It is then,” the Word tenderly brushes drifting eyelids close,
“It is then that the fullness of the flower will be displayed;
Its sweet nectar feeding those who touch;
Its aroma a gift to those who pass;
Its beauty a rare crafted prism by My hand.”