What but faith would make the golden leaf let go of life and whisper where she fell, it shall be well?
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.