4


.
.
.
.
.
.
the magnolia is antique
or is it ancient
like crossing your fingers
it doesn’t matter
in this place
this farm
where the needle
is lost in the haystack
and the secrets
are buried beneath the skin
leaving hands hungry
to touch the truth
in the growing storm
.
.
.
.

12 thoughts on “4

  1. like crossing your fingers
    it doesn’t matter– i like that part best

    magnolias sure
    taste good
    in the ole
    nostrils
    ;-)

    (I don’t know why I am showing up as a green design. I’m not usually envious. My new site did get hacked though. I reckon they ran off with my face.)

  2. Those last five lines are particularly moving to me.

    We bury our secrets
    while our hands
    continue
    reaching out for truth
    in the storm
    of our every day lives
    our hearts longing for peace.
    Peace waiting for us through the Trinity,
    but . . .
    allowing ourselves peace
    is often the key
    we’ve misplaced
    or
    refuse to pick up,
    put in door lock,
    and turn for freedom
    from self
    and
    those secrets
    ever digging
    deeper
    under our skin.

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