The Romans 12 Cycle: Prophet

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A hot summer day,

Once again I read someone

Else’s mail. Sipping

Lemonade as I crochet

Edges of reality.

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The leaves fall. As I

Count the dry bones, I breathe forth

The silence of death

Woven from mountains and skies

Which hem in the Beloved.

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My breath twines with snow

Yet to come. They rebuke me

For seeing the dark,

But what choice was I given?

The winter is my needle.

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Spring’s my thread of green.

New like the shards of broken

Mirrors. Pieces placed

Like manifold wisdom, glimpse

Reality’s tapestry

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I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who count the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

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