I could pine with the evergreens, I could spread my empty arms like branches, aching for the snow to fall, to cover all my weary world in white. I could sway with grief in the warm winds. I could weep with the clouds in the rain— I love a winter far away. But You are … Continue reading Pining

In the End

That Christmas comes at the end, in the final breaths of a wasting year, is best. After the muscle-ache of trekking graveside and back, graveside and back; after the haunting loneliness— of beauty-gazing and solo-missions, of incomprehensible party chatter, of home without its people; after the long war— the blitzkrieg of unrelenting lies, and the … Continue reading In the End

My Poet

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