maybe pruning is too kind a word
for this cut
one flinch
and the crucial circumcision
becomes the mutilation
of my faith
preserving salt
burns the wounds laid open
so I stare down into empty hands
with heavy shoulders
and agonize at how life came
to this
when the prickle
through numbness comes
is it the green bud
of dreams newborn
or the phantom itch of hope
amputated long ago
if the tender rain is a gift for the unjust
then wash me
come to me healer
sing over me
the song of life resurrected
cut the bonds cinched tight
and beckon me to take up the bed
of my selfishness
and run again
to the place where laughter
dances on my tongue
where frigid expectation
warms in your perfect light
and you and I are in love again
For more Magpie Tales follow this road.
