I can explain the expenditure of metered
words with the equivalent of a mind that
apprentices itself to the sobs of white-hot
glares that branch out of loving light.
The strains of strokes are so minute yet
so powerful they penetrate skin, escaping
from the position of observer to active
participant. Grains of sand are caste aside
in a fleeting journey of reminiscence where
dragonflies bicker ceaselessly at the winds
of night, pushing upward against their capture.
I have sprawled myself face down in
the rains where breaths from lungs painfully
raise stirring small bubbles upon lips that
yearn to be silenced by such beauty; my hands
held out to God, as my Savior lifts me up.
by Theresa C. Newbill