mourning dove. a poem for the martyrs.

your cry cut through the empty
black morning, shuffling on
into another long day of wondering where
in the world is the hope?
surely even you had pounded your weary
wings against the hard cold, fleeing
from winter. but just when I wasn’t listening
i heard your lonely keen
a refrain I hardly realized I’d yearned for
until i heard you singing



“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers,nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Romans 8:38-39 ESV

*dedicated to the Coptic Christians and martyrs everywhere, and that each of us would be so brave when our time to stand for The Cross Draws nigh*

winter poem.

don’t mind
the cold days when winter covers
the heat smothering the
blinding sun with a mist-knit sweater
holding in hope and when at last
it lifts, the outline of
life sharpens


remember. a poem.

did you
before you did
what you did
helpless like you once were
too, fresh and pure and
well things turn awful
red when they’re left growing
wide open in
the hot sun scorching the pretty
little petals until
the first frost
and then after
winter cold and white
the hot crimson petals
push through and