Posted in Poemesque


You are right, sister mine.

The flowers, they care not for us.

Neither do they know us.


Our dreams and aspirations

Are none of their concern.

Yet they speak to us in turn


Of light and love and peace.

Of joy that transcends the mind.

And listening, I find


His voice.

A promise of caring

An offer of sharing


If I but look and see

If I will bend to read

As they take the lead


In crying out His praise.

What they have to say

Is greater than the way


I want to hear them speak.

I want to dress them in lace

And have them tell me of my place


In this world.

Who loves me and who hates me.

What to do when one berates me.


I am asking far too much

Of one to whom God only said

“Tell her not to worry her head.”


Through them to me:

“I love you when you love Me .”

“I love you when you love Me not.”



I rock. I also paper and scissors.

Come on. Let it out. You know you want to.

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