Joy is but a minstrel’s flower,
lightening under the thumbnails.
Preach of mud around the eyes,
myself a centipede, fast but fragile.
I gaze and I know the way is a path is a dream
of a hawk landing and inside that dream
anguish quickens to gold, despair into
overcoming. Inside that dream, Jesus stands
insistent in a child’s purity, burdenless, fresh
as the sun always is and always burning.
A tiny stone that cannot break, a love so graced
it welcomes the flooding tide. But I am broken,
eaten in tiny increments by the changing mirror –
around the evenings, around the first day’s light,
blind to all but the persistent churning.
Jesus’ great love has left me weeping,
suffering mended, miracles under
a white desert sky, offering a gift
seemingly small, unassuming,
but full enough to prevent heartache’s
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: