Wednesday, January 12, 2011

The Gift So Worn

weariness walks on my soul.

The doing that can never be done
tolls in my mind, a dissonant bell,
for there is no rest.

The sun rises,
yet there is no rising,
though the shining sun
even the most feeble flower.

That blessing,
birthing hope
over the multiscapes of being
—that light caresses the soft flower petal.

Would that I were the flower!

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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