A poem

Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

The trees are gray.

Something inside, living to be said.

The ground is still.

The world keeps spinning.

Somewhere out there, truth to be found.

The cold is bitter.

The sun is weak.

Someone down here, willing to hear.

The frost is thick.

The branches are empty.

Somehow up there, words will weigh.

Inviting pew-weary Jesus people to embrace + experience their truest identity as beloved through subversive spiritual disciplines. Hope*Writer. Creative mentor.

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