My Love Trusts
In the treasury of snow angelic hands in shadow fold each fragile breath of a rose with reverence to a name.
Vibrant sister who stepped
a silent samba in somber shoes; whose flutter of exquisite hands dropped like doves to nest
in awkward fists of gentleness; you are “a fountain of gardens a well of living water and streams from lebanon.”
Winter left us with a kiss
a dew dressed and trembling blossom pink at dawn’s first glimpse
through myriad spheres of silver mist.
But the flow of folds concealed the first flower’s fatal seed
and beneath each moment’s dress the days yearned to weakness.
Bereft because I’ve loved substance more and light less mine is the bleak scripture of trees against a field of drifting snow.
Unseen, the faithful work of hands, in living stone, replaces sand
with reverence to a name. No vehement beat of flames or swells can singe or shake this place where light dwells; where love believes, hopes,
endures, suffers and forgives all and never fails. A treasure immune to moth and rust, beyond
brute reach of beautiful dust; deeper than death, my love trusts.
In the treasury of snow angelic hands in shadow fold each fragrant breath of a rose with reverence to a name.