Transformation

frosty spruce

Just as frost makes pearls from pain and covers plain with glory,

So your faith can glean the grain within your painful story;

When you feel the pinch of frost, the sting of cold rejection,

Know one day when it has lost, you’ll be a grace confection.

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Foot Fetish

autumn resting place

Rest, the road exacts its Toll,

Take a load off wearied sole;

Close your eyes and breathe Life in,

Reflect on where your feet have been.

Confident, they marched with ease;

Terrified, ‘neath shaking knees

They stumbled on when doubtful days

Blocked e’en hope’s most brilliant rays.

Pause, let wand’ring feet sit still,

Exhale deep, let lungs refill;

Slow your pace, take time to stroll,

Rest is good for every sole.

Accession

dangler

Death becomes her, highlights power

In this final golden hour;

It takes strength to grant demise

To Less, that More would be the prize.

Solemn spill, these dreams that fall,

Graveyard draped in leafy pall;

Wail she will, while pain is fresh –

But soon, her bones will gain new flesh.

 

 

 

Stand

dreamy tree

You’ve watched them fade, these fragile dreams you sowed

when innocence was freshly minted, the shade

of spring meadows. Just when they felt full-grown,

they yellowed, curled, leaves from an ancient and

shabby book. You lost your grip;

now they lie scattered at your feet, crisp in their

brokenness. You could have died with them – no one

would have blamed you if you had joined your fallen

comrades in all their ashen stillness. Yet here you

stand, head high, arms outstretched,

hands open, expectant. You are an oak,

sinewy and solid. Storms have toughened your skin,

stiffened more than your upper lip,

rooted you in profound places. And I think,

perhaps,

that if you can stand tall after all you’ve lost,

I could stand, too.

I, Rapunzel

Rapunzel

I, Rapunzel, clutched the tighter to my golden mane;

You, the wooer, prince and fighter, struggled to unchain

All those strands that held me captive to the distant past;

Strangled hopes and maladaptive dreams I had amassed

Like treasure chests with broken stocks, reduced by time to rust;

Death had killed my golden locks, and crumbled them to dust.

‘Let down your hair!’ your battle cry resounded in the dark;

But tendons tightened, terrified of barren branches; stark

My thoughts, unclothed my heart, as hope dared warm my blood;

One by one upon the start, and then a torrent flood

Descended in a golden cloud, until I stood unveiled –

Beneath my feet, a golden shroud, where former visions paled.

And now I wait, a bare-skinned maid, my Prince has won me fair;

For with the spring, I’ll grow new braids, fresh dreams will crown my hair.

A Leaf to Turn

burnt edge

Life has hurt you; I can see

The scars from where you’ve burned –

If you’ll let go, that frailty

Could be a leaf to turn.

For something new to grow again

Where only wounds have bloomed,

The old must drop; there, space obtained,

Spring’s vigor can resume.

So say good-bye to autumn’s jaws,

To fronds aglow with strife;

For after Winter’s healing pause,

Your soul will burst to life.