I am worn from the aching breath of angels and the language of men.  A delicate voice in the forgotten parallels of God pierces the spirit of fevered entropy. 
I find that the doves are following the heavy world without knowing the elegance in truth, and I wonder where the light will shine.  Will Winter cascade away from the hungry hounds of a war without a sound? 
Is tomorrow dead already?  But, then I hear the whisper,
“. . . but God. . .” and I rejoice in knowing that these days are not quite over. The love of God can make a tree weep and a mist fold into the burnished twilight, with ease. 
So lovely is the kiss, when we meet again, with the dancing frames of time.  The burning bruise of our footsteps on the dunes has not gone unnoticed, yet I am sure that we are forgiven.  The dichotomy of flame and honey is a gateway into the whole cloth of our dawning body.  But it is the spark of salt that keeps us afloat and our laminin tied to the walk of the cross. 

 

©️Winter Dawn Burns