The Hunt

seagull egg

My heart was born,

an embryo, a pale and speckled thing;  I

painted it with childish dreams, in rainbow shades of spring.

I thought it was a masterpiece, its shell Venetian glass; I put my gift upon

display, in Easter basket grass. When no one stopped or noticed it, I gazed about

in tears; I noted how the others looked, and painted mine like theirs. But ev’ry layer

colored in just added extra weight; its overburdened, hard-boiled shell soon learned

to hibernate. One day someone gathered it and leaned in for a peep; in his haste he

scrambled it, and tossed it in a heap. Hurt, it hid, and hidden, hurt, and nursed its

deviled thoughts; broken, beaten, in despair, pain fried its yolk in knots. Gentle eyes

began a search, intent upon a quest; Hunter, restless, overlooked the paint-by-number

nests. Gentle hands with kid-glove care collected, cracks and all;  Humpty’s horses’

kingly men had no luck by his wall, but Hunter’s love was kingly glue, and whisked

the shattered shell back into its birthday state, and realigned each cell. Gentle

pressure peeled the paint, revealed its truest shade – Seeker sought and found

his prize, and put it on display. He tells me now he loves me true, though

still my cracks survive; but, incubated by his warmth,

my heart has come alive.

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Seen and Heard

catherine-woodbury2

I see you, girl with the anxious eyes.

I notice all your secret sighs;

You cannot hide yourself; I see

The pain you hide from all but Me.

I hear you, girl with the silent words.

You think your prayers rise up unheard;

Your laughter masks your heart’s true song;

I sing it out from dusk to dawn.

I know you, girl with the secret soul.

I feel your longing to be whole;

Designed for beauty from the start,

I know your every cell by heart.

I love you, girl who feels no love,

Whose spirit cries she’s not enough;

So, since on earth you were not free,

I brought you home to live with Me.

In memory of Kristy

The Beauty in the Mess

ruffles macro

Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.

 

 

The Covering

frost crystals

She wrapped her naked soul in frost,

Afraid of being known;

But hiding came at bitter cost –

This skin was not her own.

She lost connection to her core

As frozen walls were raised;

The warmth of Love could melt, restore,

So she could live unglazed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing Old

fall spirea

Gone the glow of verdant youth,

Fragile joints replace fresh stems;

Roughened bark succeeds the smooth,

Strength and power, spring’s bold gems,

Falter with the frost of age –

Stumble in the autumn breeze;

But, as Time turns weathered page,

Beauty brings us to our knees.