Night’s child—sorrow of the
morning sun.

April arrives—bare, too soon,
unraveling the winds.

Do the mountains know?
Do the rivers?

That you are the light,
sharp as the moon.

Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky.

Do the seas confess?
Do the sunsets?

That you are the
ocean’s dream.

Bricks of the city quiver
as the hammer comes down,

red-soaked—like the blood moon
on paper and ink.

Pearls, flowers, and rains
blossom into spring.

Green meadows rise,
turning into butterflies.

Do the stars concede?
Do the shadows?

That you are
summer’s smile—

child of heaven
and dawn,

vast as I am
small and barren—

hope of the
morning sun.

I don’t cry anymore
the salt ran dry.
I don’t look up
the sky stopped looking back.
I don’t believe
in believing.

Where are you now,
God of broken pages?
That book
full of thunder,
full of fire,
full of once.

Where are the miracles
when we need them
more than ever?
Silence
—louder than prayer.

You’ve
forsaken me
in my heart,
forsaken me
in my mind,
forsaken me
in my...

Why?

The flower needs rest,
so winter tucks it beneath the earth,
letting it sleep until spring.

The sun needs rest,
so the clouds and rain embrace it,
shielding its warmth for another day.

All roads lead to your curls
Have you read My Heart lately?
It’s the Hero’s Journey
And you, my Resurrection