hesed

A Cow’ring Flower

I am a cow’ring flower, thinking the sun in all its gold extends itself to burn me; a rigid stem, wrestling the wind as if it meant to break me; a leaf, startled at the touch of rain, convinced that it will drown me. I am a forget-me-not, knowing little and thinking far too much.

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When Love Meets Cold

When Love meets cold, it does not roll itself in brash, grey wool to cry; it gathers like the sky, folds itself around our dust, and falls— a hundred—thousand—million—times— in feathery diamonds all around us, making shining glory of the weathered ground.

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