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
She woke up one day to find
she wasn’t even a has-been.
She was a not-yet,
a fetal position bud,
a still-born dream,
an unnamed embryo.
While others unfurled,
she remained;
pupal confinement in whisper-case,
hers was a thought not conceived,
an alphabet disjointed
whose words could not contain flesh.
When the womb of her existence
was held up in placental mirror,
when she saw,
and denial was torn from wretched unformed fingers,
her pain became a labour of love,
speeding her through the birth canal,
fiery ring of the Phoenix.
With vernix and blood
scrubbed from her infancy,
with umbilical apron strings
deliberately cut,
her lungs found their Voice –
and how she wailed!
Lusty newborn cries
wrenched her chrysalis open
and she ,
on newly minted butterfly wings,
Bloomed.
Flew.
Soared!
