Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Gentleness
". . . a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not quench . . . ." Matthew 12:20
I am a match in the wind, kept aflame only by certain, sheltering hands.
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