The Nudge of the Refugee

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Taught to remain dead from the womb,

she walks among tombs, whitewashed

crypts concealing skeletal remains

of 1,000 generations, closets clammy

.

and fungal. She bites the apple

of her ancestors which, ever since

Newton wed Granny Smith, dictates

a hard fall. The System says, ‘Stay! Be

.

at home with Depravity, shake hands

with Despair! Dry bones can but rattle,

dead men can but dance.’ But she feels the

nudge of the Refugee, the rebellion of

.

soiled skin; when she opens her eyes

to Truth, she finds her mantle is but a

rented chrysalis. When they take the final

tally, her casket will be an empty husk,

.

with hinges rusted like dry blood, an

apple seed rooted through its temple.

Laughing at Gravity, she will rise

on the wings of the dawn, emancipated.

 

.

You Call My Name

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You call my name in the garden,

in tones of purest sunshine.

I hear,

and come out of my tomb,

my ears cradled

in the radiance

of this voice

that can wake the

dead.

*

Spotted Deadnettle in bloom

For a devotional on this topic, visit Growing With God in My Garden

Eternal Spring

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O temporary tomb,

O momentary mask,

you may have won the battle,

but you won’t have the last laugh.

Icy tentacles over the years

have but strengthened resolve

and built up resistance;

patience will finish its work

as Faith trumps treason.

Hope hangs onto higher hearth,

for true love conquers even death,

and ushers in

eternal spring…