Tear-drenched dreams jerk restless mind to primordial genesis,

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:

 “I will…

                                      raise yellow-gold from dirty snow,”

                            …Where flood-saturated roots rot and ice-broken limbs shrivel,

   I will…

                                     send the white-gold warmth of breezy kisses in renewal.

                         …Where dirty fingers smudge and mar pristine emerald coats,

I will…

                                      polish with a crimson cloth of sturdy weave.

                       …Where drought and darkness ravage the genesis of fruit,

I will…

                                      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.”


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