by Richard Hartwell
I delivered the small bouquet of roses,
Three modest yellow blooms in various
Stages of blossoming, or individual decay,
Depending on how diverse your points of view.
Why only three one may ask and
I can only answer these were the
Ready ones, the expectant ones,
Flowers calling to be culled from
Among masses still standing silent,
A weekly task of love presented to
My daughter who inches towards a
Silence greater than she should know
Before her span of years and laughter
Expires. I named these blooms to her
Upon delivery: the Father, the Son,
And the Spirit that binds us all.
I eschew the labels Holy Ghost and Holy
Spirit, whose cause is so misstated, knowing
My daughter’s hearing the Great Silence so soon
Binds me to all those blind to such a bouquet of love.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment