(“If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot
disown himself.” 2 Timothy 2:13)
Who told
you that
you were broken?
Do you burn the trees for the
leaves they drop on the forest floor?
Fantasy
can be dark, the soil can be rich,
shouting confirms nothing, the campfires dance
like miniature
Auroras Borealis.
Why do
you think
you are broken?
Did someone tell you to stop counting
when you missed the third beat in a waltz?
Rules
can be granite, the instructions can be concise,
apples can be crispy, the pet dogs prance
like miniature
angels-in-waiting.
When do
you think
you were broken?
Did someone know more than you
when all you needed were wildflowers and summer fields?
You are
poetry, you are unmetered,
you are porous, you are transfigured
like miniature
hypergiants
In blue
before
anyone viewed them.
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