. . . . . . 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 . . . .
A LITTLE SOMETHIN' 
that sounds like way too much work…
it’d likely be way to long
and even if ya wrote every minute of the day
it wouldn’t be
enough
time to
cover
it all
maybe i could start a “it just doesn’t matter” list.
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.)
a compliment from my favorite poet. thanks, bj.
thank you, susan :-)
This One is brilliant. It flows , rolls, runs deep. Beautiful, nance.
Well said …
thank you for the compliments!
oh, beth! this is so wonderful and beautifully expressed. thank you.
Lovely poem, and wonderful image, Nance.
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.