Alas, winter chill, you cold-hearted soul; you interrupt my intake of reverie. In sweet, sweet sorrow I clip the last blooms of fall -- wildflowers glowing in fuchsia, crimson, burgundy and linen. This daybreak, just past the first frost, the browning of burn now presses their edges. alas, valiance on display until the very last, but for one. one One set of glowing petals peeks from below, having crept around and under; its parent stem bent and broken to the ground, yet, this one has found its way to shine upward. … diminutive, brilliant, petite and perfect. Why am I surprised this vine has bloomed so, has outlasted its fellows there in its poverty and low estate? Why? In its meekness Its humility Its hardship Its fortitude All of these and beauty, too. Why, did I presuppose? its offering would be less, its contribution trivial, overlookable pitiable weak. Look beyond! the bridal bouquet awaits its day at the altar, its fulfillment in the one counted out, now counted upon. there. now
Posted on November 15, 2021, in Christ, Christian, current events, poetry and tagged bridal bouquet, Bride of Christ, flowers, garden, hope, inclusion, meekness, struggle, the least of these, winter frost. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.