(1990)
I was not in a joyous mood; God did not seem to be listening.
One morning I awoke to look out my bedroom window at a frost covered lawn and flowers blooming on the bush.
Autumn.
Cold and cruel
daubed in dulled hues.
Darkness comes early,
clutching for control.
And the Sky seems strangely
silent and still.
A bitter wind
whips this battered soul,
provoking retreat within.
Death does not judge—
all is stripped bare;
snapped
from warmth to frost.
Help me find
the flowers in the frost.
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