Monday, December 30, 2013

Leaves of grass that dried in pleasing and unusual patterns on the bank of our nearby creek.
Isaiah 40 7 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, For the Spirit of Jehovah blew upon it, Surely the people [is] grass; 8 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, But a word of our God riseth for ever. -Young's Literal Translation

Even knowing I am grass
I want to be the leaf twisting pleasingly as I curl and dry
hanging gracefully as the wind blows by
falling lightly as dust motes down
to the mother, the welcoming ground.
And my spirit to spiral away
on return flight to who can say.

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