By Ken Woodley
This morning,
amid the frost
of sunrise shadows
upon a child’s momentary vision of lingering star dust,
I feel the love shining in God’s eyes
for us all.
Not in the frozen silence of the uninvited ice
among autumn’s emptied gardens.
Nor in the way its cold crystals wordlessly rime our world.
But in the way, instead,
—when our eyes kneel next to our soul—
the end of dawn
scatters prisms of resurrection colors
like manna from heaven
before the frost melts
and becomes fallen tears
of deepest joy.
By Ken WoodleyThis morning,
amid the frost
of sunrise shadows
upon a child’s momentary vision of lingering star dust,
I feel the love shining in God’s eyes
for us all.
Not in the frozen silence of the uninvited ice
among autumn’s emptied gardens.
Nor in the way its cold crystals wordlessly rime our world.
But in the way, instead,
—when our eyes kneel next to our soul—
the end of dawn
scatters prisms of resurrection colors
like manna from heaven
before the frost melts
and becomes fallen tears
of deepest joy.
Quite nice—thank you. Bob Copenhaver
Sent from my iPhone
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