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

lasting damage.




Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:


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