Most people come in prose— masterpieces that the world could not do without. But when You wrote me, you wrote poetry— imaginative, concise, and rhyming You. And when I look around, I see glory where others see cliche— bits of poetry sprouting in the grass, jumping trees with squirrels, resting moon-like in the clouds. I … Continue reading My Poet
Idols crash, and darkness takes the lands. But birds sing; and still the oak tree stands. Nature does not fear— she is safe in gentle, sovereign hands.