Magpie 19

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.