The
day spills scarlet
my
hands are stained
my
feet
the
sun streaks overhead
gashed
with fire
rocks
open, cracked
revealing
centers
of
ochre, bleeding
behind
our lady in Paris
a
quiet garden
of
red and yellow
Photograph: Red bud by Sabine Sauermaul
via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
5 comments:
Some days are like a blood letting...If that is how it is written. Thanks for sharing another thought provoking piece.
Nice poem and fantastic picture that illustrates it so well.
Mary's heart surely cracked open that day. But without a scarlet-spilled, cracked, gashed day, we'd never know quiet. Lots to think about here, Glynn.
pink cherry blossoms
line the paths
under my feet
like a spring snow
Hi Glynn, just stopping by to say how delightful your blog is. Thanks so much for sharing. I have recently found your blog and am now following you, and will visit often. Please stop by my blog and perhaps you would like to follow me also. Have a wonderful day. Hugs, Chris
http://chelencarter-retiredandlovingit.blogspot.ca/
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